


The Bitter And The Sweet

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Anxiety, But I Had To Mention It, First Time, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, He Doesn't Deserve To Die, I'm so sorry, M/M, Modern AU, Panic Attacks, Pining, Slow Burn, Stephen Is Dead Ya'll, Top!Segundus, Very Gentle Courtship, cinnamon, lattes, lots of pining, my first coffee shop au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 45,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28691709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: Segundus is grieving the loss of a long term partner. Childermass is a sexy coffee shop barista. Norrell is Norrell.I've never written a coffee shop AU before, which is funny, because I've spent SO MUCH TIME in coffee shops.There's some tough subject matter in here, but I'll post content warnings.Thank you emilycare for all your valuable help with pacing and plot! Best Beta Reader EVERIt's almost completed. Will just take a little time to get it all posted. I hope you enjoy!
Relationships: John Childermass/John Segundus, Stephen Black/John Segundus
Comments: 14
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

“Hey Chill.” 

“Mm?” Childermass is taking advantage of the lull in customers to lean against the counter and scroll through his texts. 

“Your boyfriend’s back. Mr. Psycho Killer.” Emma sidles up next to him, leans on the counter and bumps her shoulder against his. He can smell the lavender essential oils she wears, mixed with the smoke from the cigarette she’s just had out by the back entrance. 

“That so?” Childermass responds, still not moving his eyes from his mobile, though his heart has started to beat a wilder pattern against his ribcage.

“Yeah. I think you might be the next person who ends up chopped into bits and buried in the earth floor of his cellar.” 

“You’ve given this way too much thought,” Childermass says, clicking his phone to sleep mode and slipping it into his back pocket. As he does so, he looks up, eyes searching for the man Emma is referring to. A pale, quiet man in spectacles that’s come in every Monday now for weeks. There he is, sitting at his usual table by the milk and sugar station, back gently curved, laptop open, bathing his already pale face in an unearthly glow. “He’s not a psycho killer,” he adds. “He’s just gay and lonely. You have to stop stereotyping gay lonely men as serial killers.”

“Oh pardon me. Wherever did I get that idea from? Maybe from John Wayne Gacy, Jeffrey Dahmer, Dennis Nilsen, Dean Corrl…” 

“Oh my god Emma, shut up. He’s just a lonely bloke who probably lives with his mother, and definitely does _not_ have a collection of barely legal boys’ bodies chopped up in his basement.”

They did this sometimes for fun, tried to out-horrible each other. The poor, pale bloke sitting in the corner doesn’t deserve their mockery. Just because he’s painfully shy, and wears a threadbare corduroy jacket and has five different nit picky requirements every time he orders a coffee. 

Also, and Childermass doesn’t tell Emma this, for fear she’ll take the piss even worse than she normally does, but he thinks the bloke is cute. _Really_ cute. In an academic, anemic sort of way. His pale skin contrasts nicely with his dark eyes and dark hair. He looks to be about Childermass’ age, in his mid forties, with fetching strands of silver at his temples and likely crows feet criss crossing the skin at the corners of his eyes. If he ever smiles that is. Though he doesn’t. Not ever. 

He’s painfully thin, and his face is always screwed up into a preoccupied little frown. He sits in the corner every Monday, typing away at his laptop with a furious concentration. Only stopping periodically to take a sip of his very specific coffee. Sometimes, he looks out the window, but his face doesn't change to the solemn or contemplative expression that other people do when they look out at a busy street. Instead his features stay anxious and frowning. 

He wears round, wire spectacles and his hair, glossy and raven coloured, is always falling into his eyes, necessitating that he brush it out of the way. It’s somehow a charming tic, and allows Childermass to get a good look at the man’s slender, pale fingers as they sweep the hair back away from his brow over and over again, a sisyphean task that knows no end. 

He isn’t Childermass’ usual type. He tends to date edgy looking goth blokes and women who shave the sides of their heads. He likes reckless musicians. Self involved artists. Poets with drug problems. 

He’s not usually drawn to nervous professor types, or people so deeply entrenched in academia or the rigors of corporate life that they can’t let loose now and then. He likes people with a wild streak. Unpredictable people, and those who are difficult to sustain relationships with in general. His life isn’t very supportive of a long term committed thing, and so he develops an almost subconscious radar for people who he knows won’t stick around for long. And for those he won’t be all that torn up over when they do leave.

He’s been in love twice, several years back now, and found that the emotions involved made him into an absolute nightmare. The type who’d walk miles in the rain to bring his partner a handful of wildflowers. The type who left drunken and frightfully earnest voicemails at three in the morning. It was misery, feeling as if he was offering up his swollen, bleeding heart to another person and praying that they didn’t drop it to the floor and step on it. Though both times, it started well, but ended miserably. 

With the first, Henry, he was cheated on. Which he should have seen coming. Henry was flashy and posh and an attention seeker, and when he wanted attention from Childermass, he made Childermass feel like the only person alive in the world. And of course, when he grew tired of Childermass’ attention, he went off to make other people feel special. Lots of other people. 

The second time, far worse in his opinion, his partner Hannah had simply gone cold, without the excuse of a lover on the side to help explain it. She wanted children (which Childermass decidedly did _not_ ), she wanted marriage (another no go), and she wanted to find someone who also wanted those things. They should have talked that stuff over, but they’d been young and madly in love and talking had somehow been put on the back burner, to disastrous consequences.

His heart had broken open both times. Picking up the pieces and gaffer taping them back together had been arduous. After Hannah, he decided that signing on for that sort of toture ever again is ill advised. So now he keeps things light. Doesn’t get locked in. Doesn’t let that arsehole Cupid track him down again. 

He’s successful in the construction of the walls around his heart. He piles on gravel and broken glass and thick concrete blocks to keep others out. He grows a thicker skin, and a sharper tongue. 

These days, people often find John Childermass attractive upon the first few sightings. People tend to build certain expectations around him that start to hem him in. He’s easy to cast in the role of some dark, roguish romantic role. Then he throws out a sarcastic, cutting quip, or utterly forgets to compliment a partner on their new haircut or absolutely refuses to be called a “boyfriend,” and they grow wise to his ways and start losing interest. He’s ‘not user friendly’ as Emma points out. She should know. She’s also hard to love.

It’s one of the reasons they became friends, he and Emma. Their unlovableness. And while Childermass is absolute shite at romantic relationships, he makes friends easily. He finds friendships are far simpler and easier to handle than passionate affairs. It’s effortless to keep his head in a friendship. Easy to enjoy the person for who they are, rather than what they can give him or do for him or ultimately mean to him.

Childermass works a bit under full time for Mr. Norrell, a local hermit and rare book dealer, and part time at the coffee shop. Both jobs offer somewhat flexible hours, and (Norrell at least), offers good pay. 

The coffee shop is a place to meet potential dates, to get his social time in and to get free coffee and some extra spending money. Also, he’s always loved coffee shops. Far more relaxed and contemplative than bars, they promote new friendships, interesting conversations, and not the sort fueled by inebriated euphoria. Despite the fact that he sells caffeinated beverages all day, he finds the environment inside the shop, with its repetitive selection of singer songwriter and soft jazz cds on repeat, and its local art on the walls to be quite soothing. 

Like in all coffee shops, there are regulars. The beleaguered personal assistant to some demanding CEO who always orders two coffees to go. One, a plain skim latte, the other a towering concoction involving vanilla and caramel and whipped cream. There are the local workmen with their black coffees and the young neo hippy couple who always order a pair of posh herbal teas in pyramidal shaped silk tea bags with quotes by Buddhist monks on the packages. 

_‘Glasses’_ as Childermass refers to him, or as Emma calls him, ‘ _your boyfriend the psycho killer,_ ’ comes in once a week like clockwork, on Mondays, between 12 and 12:15pm. He steps up to the counter, clears his throat, tugs at the lapels of his jacket, tugs at his sleeves, tugs at his ear, brushes his hair away from his brow and asks for his double shot, soy latte with extra froth and just a little bit of cinnamon on top. The ‘little bit of cinnamon’ is vitally important to him, or so everyone has learned. Too much cinnamon and he frowns and asks stiffly yet politely that they scoop some of it off. Too little and he requests “just a tad more please.” His voice is soft and gentle and careful. He sounds like the type who completely lacks the ability to yell. 

He then takes his carefully constructed latte over to his usual table in the back corner and sits there for hours, tapping away at his laptop. Not speaking to anyone. If his usual table isn’t available, he gets nervous and agitated and will settle for finding an open armchair to sit in. If neither option are available, he’ll simply leave. Childermass is surprised to discover that on the few occasions this occurs, he feels a small stab of disappointment when the other man stalks out, letting the bell laden door chime shut after him. 

After a few weeks, he grows to look forward to Glasses’ Monday visits. Finds his eyes flicking over to the door whenever it jingles open, looking for the pale oval of the shy man’s face, for the dark sweep of his mahogany-silver hair. He thinks Emma, with her razor sharp emotional intuition can tell his feelings for Glasses have edged beyond customer and barista, and this is why she starts referring to the bloke as his ‘boyfriend.’ Not that this bothers Childermass. It actually gives him a little thrill to hear her say it. 

The man clearly struggles with anxiety, if not full on OCD. He’s the type of person who would probably insist that you remove your shoes when you came over for dinner so that you don’t mark up his immaculate carpets. The type who needs all of his forks and spoons arranged just so in his silverware drawer. This makes Childermass want to do things that will open the stiff man up. Warm him. Make him _loose_. He fantasizes less than idly sometimes what he might do to help Glasses unwind a bit. Perhaps a foot massage. Or a blow job. He wonders what that soft voice would sound like crying out his name, or what those long, pale fingers would feel like clutched in his hair.

He doesn’t tell Emma about his little crush. Mostly because Emma thinks the bloke is mentally unhinged, and because she wouldn’t understand. Men hold no interest for her beyond friendship. And slender, ghostly pale, nervous men who don’t say more than five words at a stretch are even less interesting. She’s a cynic, like Childermass, which is why they get along so well. And she’s a lesbian, which is (one of the reasons) why they’ve never slept together. Childermass is not sure he could take her razor sharp wit for very long, even if there were a chance in Hell he could get her into bed. They’re two of a kind, both a bit sandpapery on the outside, using extra shiny, extra spikey hermit crab shells to hide their soft, gooey centers. And so they get along well.

To avoid making Emma’s scathing opinion of Glasses McSerial Killer any worse than it is, he doesn’t bring up the way his heart starts to race when the man first walks into the shop. Part of him might be a little embarrassed that he’s found himself fancying someone he’s never really spoken to. Someone who doesn’t conform to society’s ideals of what sexy should be. But that’s fine. He likes what he likes, and he’s never cared who knew about it before now. He told his parents, bold as you please, when he was sixteen years old that he fancied girls and boys in equal measure. They’d gone a bit mental, threatened to kick him out, and so he’d kicked himself out before he could give them the pleasure of doing it. 

He’s spent the intervening years in a multitude of different places. A brief stint on board a fishing vessel as a deckhand. A brief stint as a bouncer at a local nightclub. He worked odd jobs, painting fences, doing some minor car repair, and worked on assembly lines in a few factories. He always does his best, he’s a hard worker, but he grows bored easily. He craves variety and a change of scene. 

For a few years, in his late 20s, he’d wanders aimlessly from part time job to part time job, until he bumps into Gilbert Norrell at a book sale just outside Rawcliffe. It’s at one of those outdoor markets where people sell antiques and random junk, costume jewelry and old books on long tables. Childermass has been perusing a stack of old books, because he likes to read, and is always on the lookout for something new, when a small, pinch-faced man sidles up to him. 

“You going to buy that?” The man asks, eyeing the book currently in Childermass’ hands. He sounds intent and suspicious. Like Childermass is a teenager suspected of shoplifting and this man works behind the counter of a corner store. Only he doesn’t work behind the counter. The actual bookseller, standing a few feet away, chatting up a pretty blond girl, doesn’t even notice them. This man is a fellow customer. Childermass gives him his patented look. The one that says, ‘ _who the bloody Hell do you think you are then?_ ’

When the man doesn’t bat an eyelash, just keeps staring at Childermass as if he’s owed some sort of explanation, Childermass huffs out a disbelieving puff of air. “Not sure,” he says, keeping his voice even, suppressing the urge to tell the man to bugger off. “I might. I might not.”

“Well,” The man responds immediately, “ _I_ certainly wish to purchase that particular book, so if it's’ all the same to you, I’d appreciate it if you hand it over please.” 

Childermass leans back, his eyebrows climbing to his hairline. This man has some unbelievable cheek to be speaking to a complete stranger this way. “Is that so?” he asks.

“Yes!” The man snaps. His face is going pink, and somehow more pinched under his gray knit cap. His hands have balled themselves into fists at his sides. Childermass wonders if the man will take a swing at him, though he is so small of stature that he’d have to get up on tiptoes to even attempt it. 

“Fine then,” he relents, handing the book over. “If you want it that badly.”

The man’s entire demeanor changes once he gets his hands on the book, which was some obscure novel that Childermass cannot now recall. His face un-pinches and he even smiles a small, shy smile up at Childermass. He hugs the book to his chest as if it’s a long lost keepsake, and looks for all the world like a child who’s just been given a gift. “Thank you,” he says with a nod. “This is the final volume that will complete my collection for this particular author.”

“Alright,” Childermass is not sure how else to respond. 

“I’ve had a devil of a time finding it. When I saw you with it, I was prepared to tackle you to the ground. Very glad I didn’t have to. You look like a scrappy bugger.” The small smile blooms into a medium sized grin. 

Childermass is not sure who this person is, but he’s starting to think he might like him. “Is that so?” he asks. “I’m certainly glad you opted for a more civilized transaction.”

“Gilbert Norrell,” says the man, holding out a thick, square, short fingered hand, stained with ink. “Collector of rare books and owner of Norrell’s Antiquities over on Parker Street.” 

“John Childermass.” Childermass takes Gilbert Norrell’s hand and shakes it. “I work at the auto shop down the street.”

“Oh do you?” The man’s small blue eyes light up with interest. “I’ve been having some trouble with my car. Perhaps you could take a look?” 

“Perhaps I could, if you were to pay me.” Childermass felt it important to stress this particular point, as he can already tell that Norrell is the sort who’s fond of a bargain. 

“Of course! Of course. I’ve been looking for someone I could trust to have a look at it. Those big companies always try to charge you an arm and a leg.”

“Who says I won’t do that?” Childermass asks.

“Well, you look like an honest sort of bloke, don’t you?”

“Do I?” This is the first time anyone has referred to Childermass as looking like ‘an honest sort of bloke.’ He usually gets ‘bloke from a motorcycle gang,’ or, on a few occasions ‘Loki.’ He does own a motorcycle, so that works for him. And he’s secretly quite pleased by the comparisons to Tom Hiddleston. 

“You do. You look like the sort who’s direct and to the point.”

Childrmass can’t argue with him there. No one has ever accused him of beating around the bush. And he supposes, upon a brief moment’s reflection, that he _is_ rather honest. He doesn’t lie, not ever. But he does at times, when it is convenient, refrain from speaking the truth. He’s a sly sort of person. A persuasive man who knows how he’s perceived by others and how to change that perception subtly to get what he wants. But Norrell is correct. He doesn’t lie.

And so Childermass goes over to Norrell’s house, which the other man refers to as “Hurtfew Abbey.” Childermass thinks this is a fond nickname until he sees the place. It’s enormous and very old, and squats like a large stone beast on the far outskirts of York. The house is four stories tall, with scads of ancient looking windows, and an actual gargoyle peeking out from under the apex of the roof. It must be some sort of historical landmark at this point, and looks like nothing short of a bloody castle. 

According to Norrell, it was built sometime in the late 17th century, by his (many greats) grandfather. Inside, the furniture looks as if it hasn’t been updated in about that long as well. Everything has a faded rococo vibe to it, mixed in with a few more modern pieces, if you consider the early 1950s to be “modern.” Large, faded Oriental rugs cover a good bit of the ancient wood floor boards and a massive grandfather clock stands, like a judgmental butler in the foyer. 

Norrell shows him around for some reason. Perhaps because he’s proud of his house, or because he’s taken a shine to Childermass. Childermass wonders if the diminutive older man fancies him, looks for signs that the man is interested in more than just odd jobs, and comes up empty. Norrell is impish and a bit curmudgeonly, a strange combination, but he doesn’t leer, nor does he flirt. He simply seems to enjoy showing Childermass his vast house. Like a child shows off their room. There is definitely a childlike element to his personality. Perhaps a sort of maturity he’s never managed to attain, even though he looks to be in his late thirties. 

Norrell leads Childermass out to the drive, and shows him his battered little compact car, tells him that the brakes are squeaking and the shocks probably need replacing. Childermass says he’ll take a look. After the car, Norrell asks if Childermass can take a look at the leaking sink in the kitchen. After he’s sorted out the sink, Norrell asks if he might like to see the library and shows Childermass to a room of the house he hasn’t shown him before. The walls, from the carpeted floors to the high, vaulted ceilings, are lined with huge bookshelves, packed with every imaginable type book. This would be impressive enough if the shelves themselves had not been carved with all manner of things; birds, climbing vines, flowers, animals. The combined sensation, when looking at the man’s library is of stepping back in time and into some fairy tale. 

Childermass is duly impressed, but doesn’t quite know why he’s being shown around the library, until Norrell asks him if he’s interested in some secretarial work. Childermass, who’s always looking for a new way to earn money, agrees. He’s comfortable with writing. He keeps a journal, has written a few poems in his day. He once had a job writing advert copy for a shabby little advertising agency. The job only lasted a few weeks but his boss had seemed pleased with his work. He’s never gone to uni, but he reads voraciously when given the chance. 

Norrell somehow seems to pick this up about him without being told. Childermass, at first (or second, or third) glance, does not give the immediate impression of a particularly literary minded person. He wears his hair long and ragged and pulled back into a messy ponytail. He dresses exclusively in second hand clothing, faded t shirts, ripped jeans, and his ever present black leather jacket that’s worn away at the lapels and the elbows. He’s not sure if Norrell has sensed something about him beneath his rather rough exterior, or if the man is simply oblivious enough not to let outward appearances colour his opinion of someone. Either way, he accepts the job.

Within a year’s time, he’s doing all manner of things for Norrell. Writing letters and emails (far more of the former than the latter as the man is hopelessly old fashioned), combing through second hand book sales looking for hidden gems. Fixing things around the house (which needs a lot of things fixed), and covering at the counter of Norrell’s Antiquities when Davey or Lucas (the regular cashiers) are otherwise occupied. He quickly becomes Norrell’s right hand man. Norrell, though a skinflint with others, pays Childermass well for his work. He even invites Childermass to come stay with him, offering him a spacious room in the attic. Childermass accepts. It’s free room and board after all. 

Despite the plethora of things Norrell needs Childermass for on a daily basis, Childermass still finds he has a lot of down time. He’s a quick, efficient worker, and once he’s accomplished Norrell’s daily lists of chores, it’s usually only around 12 noon. So, after he’s worked for Norrell for the better part of a decade he wanders down to the local coffee shop, The Magic Bean. Emma serves him, and it doesn’t take long for the two to start bantering back and forth. Childermass likes the vibe of the place. It’s soothing and laid back. He notices the Help Wanted sign near the front counter and inquires after the job. Emma trains him up, teaches him how to make espresso shots and steam the milk and work the register. He’s a quick study and within a few months, he’s an accomplished barista. Norrell, surprisingly doesn’t mind him working for other companies, as long as he finishes what Norrell needs from him.

Childermass really doesn’t need much time off. One night a week is plenty. What would he do with his down time anyway? Read. Wander around. He’s been single for several months now, and even when he’s seeing someone, he tends to spend two or three nights at their place, eating supper, having sex, sometimes sleeping over, sometimes not. He doesn’t want to be involved with anyone who limits his freedom. 

He finds, surprisingly, that Gilbert Norrell provides him with quite a bit of domestic companionship. The two men often chat throughout the day, and Norrell, while he can be inflexible and snappish sometimes, is usually quite cheerful. Especially when he finally gets his hands on a book he’s been after for months. They develop a solid friendship over the fifteen years that Childermass works for Norrell. There is of course still something of a class divide, and a professional boundary that doesn’t get crossed. They are not mates, so much as they have a very warm and understanding companionship, built on trust. 

Norrell starts sending Childermass out on errands to book dealers and private owners, empowering him to make deals, to offer certain amounts of money in an attempt to sway the owner to sell. He’s good at it. He has a flair for gentle manipulation and the right sort of subtle charm that gets owners to give up their prized volumes. Norrell isn’t what anyone would call charming. At least not where books are concerned. The man has a certain sort of boyish charm, but his attitude toward rare books is more the “gimmie gimmie” variety that tends to turn most people off. And so Childermass becomes the face of Norrell’s business. He excels at making deals, nudging sellers in a generous direction. 

Tonight, after Childermass gets home from the coffee shop, Norrell calls him into his library, the place he spends the most time in. “I need you to go fetch a book for me,” he says. That’s always how he puts it. As if Childermass is just popping down to the corner shop to buy some milk. “It’s owned by a gentleman in York. It’s a tough sale, because it’s written by a relative of his. His great, great, great uncle, a memoire on the man’s time serving in the Napoleonic wars. But, if offered the right amount of money, I’m certain he’ll sell.”

“And how much is the _right amount_ of money?” Childermass asks, genuinely curious what a book like that would cost. 

“I’d say fifteen hundred pounds.” 

Childermass’ brows lift in surprise. He’s purchased books for Norrell before at up to perhaps seven hundred and fifty pounds, but those were first edition Gibrans and Dickensons. This personal memoir is apparently of a different class entirely. 

“Why so expensive?” he asks.

“Well, this great great uncle was apparently a spy who infiltrated Napoleon’s camp, and his memoires detail his experiences ingratiating himself to the French. He was a successful and accomplished spy, by the name of Jonathan Strange. He lived among Napoleon’s troops for a solid two years, reporting back to the British whenever he could slip away. He also sent some of his findings home to his wife in a series of letters.”

“Strange was found, tortured and murdered eventually, but not before he gave Lord Wellington some very vital information that helped our forces win the war. His wife had the letters made into a book and kept it in the family, and the journal, the memoirs were smuggled out by a dedicated friend of Strange's among the French and made it back to his wife as well. The family published the book of letters back in the 80s. It did well, but no one’s seen the journal yet... Apparently, the letters were full of romantic nonsense and historical details, and she wanted to memorialize her late husband’s thoughts. Back in 98 some independent film company offered to buy the rights to the journal. They found about it by some means, the family does make mention of it, and it’s far meatier, has more specific details than his letters home. The family however, refused. Subsequent editions of the letters have made it close to the top of the best seller list, but by now, it’s been all but forgotten. I’m hoping that motivates the current owner to sell the journal and the first edition copy of the letters to me as well.

“He’s been seen on message boards stating that he wants to donate the journal to the Soldiers of Shropshire museum, as that’s where the family is from. I want to buy it off him instead.”

“Ah,” says Childermass. He can see the size and shape of the sale now. The owner surely has more than the average amount of sentimental attachment to the book and journal both, and donating the journal to a museum would allow it to be available to the public indefinitely. Selling to a private collector would be a difficult case to make indeed. “Could I go higher if need be…” He lets the question hang, letting Norrell fill in the blanks.

“You can, if absolutely necessary, go as high as three thousand pounds. But that’s only if push comes to shove and you can’t work your usual magic.” 

Childermass nods, impressed. “Alright. What’s his name and address? I'll stop by tomorrow morning.

“Here,” Norrell hands him a business card, printed with a name and address in square, serious font.. 

“John Segundus,” Childermass reads out loud. “He doesn’t live far. Let's hope he’s the giving sort.” He offers his employer a mischievous grin.

“If anyone can get him to sell, it’s you,” Norrell says, returning Childermass’ grin with a small smile of his own. “Don’t be afraid to put a little pressure on.”

“I’ll do my best,” Childermass slips the card into the pocket of his jacket and heads off to his room for the night. Whoever this John Segundus is, he won’t know what hit him. Childermass is good at what he does. He’ll get that journal. It’ll be like taking candy from a baby. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: sudden violence. mentions of blood. car crash

John Segundus is having a nightmare. It’s a recurring one, and yet, in the predictable way of the dreaming mind, his brain cannot seem to get it together to realize that this has all happened before. That he has this dream at least once or twice a month. 

In it, he and Stephen are headed back from Stephen’s family’s house in Leeds. It’s a lovely fall evening and the sun is setting in a peacock-feather spread of oranges, pinks and golds across the western sky behind them as they drive toward York. They’re happy. They’re always so happy in the dream, which might be why John is never prepared for what happens next. 

He’s holding Stephen’s hand, their fingers interlaced, pale and dark together, hands sitting on John’s knee. It’s always a vivid dream, and he can feel the warmth of Stephen’s palm against his own, the weight of their combined hands resting against his leg. 

Stephen is driving. He insists on driving as John is a nervous driver, always too cautious, gets snappy when there’s traffic. So Stephen always drives. They’re chatting about something. John’s sleeping mind can never tell what exactly. Perhaps Stephen’s mother’s cooking and how she tries to overfeed John. Or perhaps what they’ll watch on telly that night when they get home. Something domestic and silly and of very little consequence. 

The other vehicle comes out of nowhere. There’s a flash of headlamps, and a gut wrenching slide of the horn before it hits the driver’s side of their car. Then time slows down, as if everything is moving through treacle. Like every car accident in every action film. John turns his head and watches in horror as Stephen’s window crumples, and chunks of glass fly toward them both, a spray of diamonds. Watches as Stephen’s head snaps to the side and blood blooms like a rose from his mouth as he’s crushed by the impact. 

John Segundus wakes, damp with sweat, a strangled cry on his lips, clawing at the bed sheets as if he’s being strangled by them. He sits up, gasping for air, feeling as if he’s drowning in panic until his eyes settle on and recognize the familiar shadowy hulk of his bureau in the corner. Until he sees his writing desk and his chair, like old friends, standing silently against the wall opposite the bed, lined in silvery light from the streetlamp through his bedroom window. And then, only then does he realize that he’s had _the dream_ again. The dream where he relives the accident over and over.

When it had happened for real, John hadn’t remembered any of it. They say that’s the way with traumatic experiences. The brain shuts down your memories and there’s nothing but a blank space. John was knocked unconscious in the crash. He woke in hospital, several hours later, feeling like he’d been mugged. He woke to the sight of Stephen’s mother and father, clinging to one another by his bedside and weeping. He didn’t need to be told what had happened to Stephen, his partner of five years. His beautiful boyfriend. He’d let Stephen’s mother wrap him in her arms, let her wet the side of his face with her hot tears. He’d let Stephen’s father squeeze his shoulder and try to be stoic as tears leaked from his eyes and ran down his cheeks. It’s the first time John had ever seen Mr. Black cry. 

John though did not cry. Not at first. Not in hospital. He felt stunned. Empty. Dreamlike. After Stephen’s parents left, to go make arrangements and embark on a lifetime of grieving for a son they were not prepared to lose, John had stared up at the hospital ceiling. He’d felt numb and empty. Feeling as if he’s a hollow man with no bones or blood or organs inside him. It isn’t until he’s been discharged, several hours later and goes back to the apartment that he lets himself break down. He goes straightway to the closet, grabs one of Stephen’s jumpers from the hanger and presses it to his face. Then and only then, as the soft, sweet, familiar scent of Stephen’s skin and soap and aftershave hits him, hits his brain, does he let go. He lets great, wracking gagging sobs pull themselves up from the core of him. Sobs that feel as if they’ll tear him apart. He holds Stepehen’s jumper in his arms and curls up on the bed they shared, and weeps until he runs out of strength. 

Stephen’s parents keep calling, and a few times he picks up, listens to Stephen’s mother cry, tries to say supportive things. She tries to support him as well by asking how he is, inviting him over, offering to share his grief. How can he tell her how he is? He can’t tell her that it feels as if he’s a walking ghost. He can’t tell her that he’s lost the will to work, to bathe, to eat very much of anything. She’s lost her only son, so if he feels like this over the loss of a romantic partner, he is humbled by what she and Stephen’s father must be going through. He can’t bring himself to add to the pile of grief they’re already struggling to dig themselves out of.

Eventually, he stops picking up the phone when she calls. He writes Celia and Roger Black a letter, short and to the point, saying that he wishes them both the best, that he loves them very much but that he has to grieve alone now. That he doesn’t have the strength for it to be a group activity. He says it with prettier words than that, and hopes he gets the point across without hurting them too much. For he does love them. Saw them as surrogate parents. Was looking forward to many Christmases and birthdays spent in their cozy house in the suburbs. Christmases and birthdays that won’t happen now.

The days become weeks. The weeks become months. The months stretch out into two long, cold years. John’s grief turns from a knife’s edge to a dull throb to a comforting blanket he wraps around him to keep other sorts of pain out. He loses weight. He loses connection with their shared friends. 

Eventually, as the grief slowly recedes like a low tide, he finds he can focus back in on work, and even goes to a therapist. Makes small steps toward recovery and rejoining the land of the living. He still dreams of Stephen regularly. Some of the dreams are sweet. Some are mundane. Some are a bit randy, and when he wakes from those particular dreams, his body tingling and his mind groggy, it takes him less and less time to remember that Stephen is no longer in bed next to him. Still, those sorts of dreams alway make him cry upon waking. 

At the strong suggestion of his therapist, he starts going to a nearby coffee shop once a week to get out of the flat and so he can “be around other people.” It's alright he supposes. The shop, The Magic Bean, is a warm, comfortable sort of place that plays soothing music. A bit womb-like really. And he finds he can concentrate on his work, even when other people are nearby. He chooses Mondays, assuming they’ll be less crowded, and they are.

He even begins to sneak glances at the sexy barista behind the counter. The man’s name tag says “John,” a name that of course catches John’s eye. This however is not what his coworkers call him. They call him “Childermass”, or “Chill.” A strange name to be sure. A strange man. But he grabs John’s attention. Makes a libido he’d thought was long dead and buried begin to scratch half heartedly at the lid of it’s coffin. John Segundus doesn’t speak to John “Chill” Childermass. Only orders his coffee and tries to calm the jumping nerves that live beneath his skin while he watches the man saunter off to the espresso machine. 

“Chill” (what a daft nickname) is out of his league anyway. Even though his brain politely reminds him that he thought Stephen was out of his league as well when they first met. Still, this man is sex incarnate. He slinks when he walks. His eyes are dark, like John’s own, but almond shaped and with long lashes. He has nicely muscled shoulders and beautifully shaped hands, and his hair, perpetually ragged and messy, is always in a careless ponytail. Segundus is certain that he hasn’t ever fancied the type of man to wear his hair in a ponytail before, but now he’s rapidly changed his tastes. 

The barista is not classically handsome, has a sharp, cynical twist to his face. Uneven features, a stray tom cat vibe to him that makes him look rough around the edges. By comparison, the man’s coworkers at the coffee shop look like a pile of affectations. Like they’re _trying_ to appear artistic and jaded. 

Unlike John Segundus, Childermass looks like he’s at home in his skin. 

John has always been an anxious person. It’s just how he’s built, like there’s a twisting turning _thing_ inside him. A piece of fabric that’s been wrung up tight. A swirl in his chest like water going continually down a drain. Stephen had helped calm him down, anchor him to the earth, had helped him put down roots from which to draw tranquility and safety. Stephen, so sweet and kind, who brought him coffee in bed in the mornings and called him “darling” and kissed his forehead oh so tenderly. There had been a steadiness and a calmness about Stephen that John had envied and needed. And so when the accident robs him of his partner, it also robs him of a sense of solid ground beneath his feet. His twistiness and the swirling tension inside his chest get exponentially worse when Stephen leaves the world. John feels adrift, lost, like he’s spinning through the black of space. 

It has slowly eased, this feeling of drifting without a tether. He learns to find his own ground again after a while, even if it is shifting and soft and difficult to get a toe into. He goes to the coffee shop on Mondays, therapy on Thursdays, calls his aunt and his parents on Fridays. He works from home, which is a blessing, as it allows him privacy and the comfort of his own office, but also a curse, because it limits his daily contact with other people. 

He doesn’t usually want to be around people that much to start with. Other than the Black family, who welcomed him in and folded around him in a way he found surprisingly comfortable. He’s lost touch with the friends he shared with Stephen, and feels no real compunction to make new ones. But he knows it’s good for him to be in the world. To unfold a little and reach a cautious tendril out to the proverbial sunlight of Other People. If he stays by himself for too long, he’ll turn into something twisted and sad and cold. He doesn’t want that, even though he knows how easy it would be to simply slip away, into the shadows. To block out the world and drift off into a cannibalistic, stilting sort of anxiety. 

He isn’t comfortable with medication, and so he makes a concerted effort to fight his way back to a normal sort of life in a post-Stephen world without meds. He knows meds are not a sign of weakness. That lots and lots of people are regularly saved by taking them, but he somehow convinces himself that it’s unfaithful to Stephen’s memory to try and get over him chemically before he’s processed through his grief in an organic fashion. He’s aware that this is total bollocks, but still can’t bring himself to seek out medical help. 

After his heartbeat calms itself from a pounding timpani drum to a normal thump-thump inside his chest, after the nightmare recedes enough so that he can catch his breath, he swings his feet out of bed and pads to the kitchen for a large glass of water. It’s early, barely five, but he gives up hope of getting back to sleep and puts coffee on. He bought a bag of breakfast blend at the coffee shop yesterday. The smell of it as it starts to percolate inside his single serve coffee machine reminds him of the sexy barista, and he wonders (for perhaps the tenth time that week) if the bloke fancies other men. 

Shaking his head to rid himself of these silly imaginings, he fetches his favorite mug from the cabinet, pours in just the right amount of cream and sugar and pours the coffee over top, stirring until it goes from midnight black to caramel coloured perfection. 

He sits up with a book for a while before work starts at nine. He makes his own schedule, but prefers a regimented start time to keep him from dilly dallying. 

At half past nine, there’s a knock on the door. It’s a sharp, no nonsense sort of knock. A businesslike knock, and John flinches inwardly, hoping it’s not a salesman. He’s always too polite to tell them to go away. He gets up and opens the door a crack. 

For a moment, the brightness of the sunshine, and crispness of the early spring air hitting his face confuse him. He sees an attractive man, around his age, wearing a leather jacket, peering in at him with what might pass for polite expression on his face, were he some sort of vigilante character from a video game. It takes him a few seconds to parse out why the man looks familiar, but the moment he realizes who it is, his heart begins to race. 

_It’s Childermass from the coffee shop_. For a brief, mad moment, John wonders if he’s called the man into being with the power of his mind. 

“John Segundus?” Childermass asks, incredulity painted plainly across all four syllables, and Segundus nods numbly. 

“You...you work at the coffee shop don’t you?” he replies, stating the obvious, squinting at the man on his doorstep in disbelief. This is a surreal situation, and one he’s not quite prepared for. The lonely part of his brain perks up and suggests that just maybe, Childermass is there to ask him on a date. To tell him he’s been thinking about him in his spare time (when he masturbates preferably). The situation has the makings of the beginning of a bad porno. Or perhaps that’s just how John sees it. Living alone, awash with grief yet still randy from too much time without intimate touch. It does things to a man’s brain.

“Yes… uh. I didn’t realize this was you. Never caught your name before. Can I come in?”

 _Of course you can come in. You can do whatever you want. Please… let me take your coat. And shirt. And trousers._ “Of course,” John says out loud, steps back, pulls the door open wide. He tells his ridiculous, sex starved brain to shut up as Childermass saunters into the flat. The man brings the smell of petrol and the sweet tang of some sort of subtle cologne in with him, and Segundus tries to swiftly commit it to memory so he can call it up later. For… reasons. 

“I uh, I know this must seem strange,” Childermass is saying, looking around at Segundus’ rather bare and undecorated flat. “I swear I had no idea that you were the bloke from the coffee shop when my boss sent me over here.”

“Your boss?” Segundus is confused. He’s also a bit stunned by this strange, compelling man, standing in his sitting room. It’s an incongruous sight. One he’d never thought he’d see outside of casual sexual fantasies. He simply has no road map for how to cope with his crush showing up at his door at 9:30am on a Tuesday morning. 

“Yes, my boss. Mr. Gilbert Norrell. He’s a rare book collector. Wanted me to come round and ask you about your great uncle’s Journal and your great aunt’s book.” 

The man’s voice, deep and rich, has a thick Yorkshire accent. It’s distractingly charming to John’s southern ears. Yes he’s lived in Yorkshire for almost a decade now, but that accent coming out of Childermass’ mouth still slays him a little. So much so that he at first doesn’t put together what he’s just heard. “My great uncle’s Journal?” He knows he sounds like a fool, but Childermass is doing a number on his equilibrium.

“Aye. Along with the original copy of your great aunt’s collection of letters, ‘My Darling Arabella’. The ones from your great uncle, about his time as a spy in the Napoleonic wars. My boss would very much like to purchase both of them, for a hefty sum.”

“But, why would he want that?” Segundus is frightfully slow on the uptake. 

“As I’ve said, he collects rare, old books,” Childermass replies. He turns around, having perused Segundus’ flat with his eyes, he now rests them on Segundus’ face. He stands with his hands on his narrow hips, leather jacket parted to reveal a faded dark gray (or once black) t shirt. Segundus cannot help but let his eyes flick down the length of the man’s body, noting the small swell of his belly under the thin material of the shirt, the shape of his thighs, encased in faded blue jeans. He jerks his eyes guiltily back up to Childermass’ face, hoping he wasn’t caught leering. 

“Oh, I see _._ ” The pieces are slowly falling into place. He’s forgotten he even has the journal for a minute there. But once he’d clawed his way out of his grief enough to look at the world around him, he’d seen it on his shelf, and had started the process of what to do with it. His parents had given it to him as a birthday gift, a sort of informal inheritance ceremony. The Journal has been passed down from generation to generation in his family for just over two hundred years. Passed from Strange to Strange, until a Strange only daughter married a half Jewish, half Italian Segundus, who’d had all sons. His grandparents, the first set of Segunduses, also had sons, one of which had sired John Segundus himself.

John knows he was originally expected to pass the Journal along to his own children, but being a gay man who has no interest in fatherhood, that has ceased to be an option. His only sibling, his sister is less than interested in old books, has never shown much interest in their great great uncle’s journal. So giving it to her will guarantee that it ends up on the bottom of a cardboard box in someone’s attic, or left somewhere for a stranger to find. Her children are devotees of video games and action films and their little eyes glazed over swiftly when he tried to broach the subject to them. 

He’d posted on some rare book message boards looking for advice, and it had been suggested to him to look into donating it to the Soldier’s Museum in Shropshire, where his great (great great great) aunt and uncle had once lived. It seemed a perfect, elegant solution. A way that the journal could be seen and enjoyed by people (at least under glass, with some interesting description of it posted nearby on some sort of plaque), and that its story could continue to be told. 

How his family’s only true inheritance has somehow found its way into the life of the barista he is absently lusting over in his spare time though, is beyond bizarre. 

“He’s very interested in purchasing it, along with the first edition of your great aunt’s letters.” Childermass’ voice knocks Segundus out of his musings. “So I’m here to talk about the possibility of you selling them to me.”

“To...to you?” Segundus asks, lost again. Perhaps he should have had a second cup of coffee. 

“Well, not to me specifically. To Mr. Norrell, but I’m his ‘man of business’ as it were, so I’m authorized to make the sale.”

“So the coffee shop isn’t your only job then?” Why John decides to make small talk at this particular moment is a mystery, even to himself. 

Childermass laughs, low and warm, and John feels it deep inside his belly. “No. I have a full time job as Norrell’s PA. I work at the coffee shop for spare change.” 

“Oh, alright then.” John is gaining balance, learning the shape of the situation. He’s reassured by the fact that Childermass looks a bit confused as well. His eyes stay trained on John’s face, and John can detect telltale signs that he’s nervous. His chest rising and falling visibly with his breath, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. It’s probably just the nervousness of discovering that the person you thought was a total stranger actually inhabits that awkward no man’s land between stranger and acquaintance. The only words they’ve ever exchanged have to do exclusively with the ordering and purchasing of coffee drinks. 

“So, he’s let me offer you an amount I think you’ll agree is-” Childermass begins.

“I won’t sell,” Segundus cuts him off. He hates to be rude, but his brain has now fully caught up with the rest of him and he’s grasped the situation that’s unfolding here. “Those books are my family’s most valuable possessions. And since I’m not likely to have children of my own to pass them down to, I’m donating the journal to the museum in Shropshire. I won’t have it sitting in someone’s private collection. As for _My Darling Arabella_ your boss is welcome to track down one of the first editions that are already out there and keep that. We’re not giving up the original text.” He squares his shoulders and juts out his chin to help make his point, but inside, he’s a mess of exploding synapses. Flight or fight chemicals rushing through his veins as he stares into Childermass’ dark eyes.

“You...won’t sell?” Childermass injects just a splinter of snark in his tone of disbelief. It results in the sort of sarcasm that implies that the person it’s aimed at is an idiot. “Really? You don’t even know how much I’m authorized to give you for it.”

“Are you authorized to give me fifty million pounds?” Segundus asks, unable to control his own snark. “Because unless you offer me enough money so that I can quit my job and pay all my bills for the rest of my life and move to the tropics, I’m not selling. You see my family won’t forgive me unless your employer makes them all millionaires.” He tries keeping his voice civil, but can feel what Stephen called “The Snip” coming up. 

“Well, no, not as such. I was authorized to offer you three thousand,” Childermass responds, a little bit of an edge creeping into the warmth of his voice, turning it a few degrees colder. 

“Three thousand?” Segundus hasn’t expected an amount that high. But still. Three thousand pounds would be spent in a couple of weeks time. Even less if you considered the repairs he wanted done to his car. “No deal,” he says. 

Childermass does not respond. He simply looks at John with his dark eyes, his thin mouth set in an unforgiving line. He doesn’t speak for so long, that John begins to feel acutely uncomfortable. He knows what Childermass is doing. He’s putting the pressure on. He’s hoping John will grow so uncomfortable that he’ll fold and accept the offer. That the silence stretching between them now will make him second guess his rash refusal. 

Only it won’t. He’s not selling. Not for the paltry price of three thousand pounds. Not his family’s only and most precious heirlooms. He realizes with a start, while staring boldly into Childermass’ unsettling gaze, that he loves his uncle’s journal more than he thought he had. Not to mention the collection of letters. The thought of the originals, being in the hands of some stranger, made him feel a bit ill. 

Eventually, standing there staring at each other apparently becomes too ridiculous even for Childermass to put up with. He breaks their eye contact, looks down at his feet, shakes his head in a way that clearly means to express deep disappointment. “Well, I’ll let my employer know. He’s dead set on having them, so maybe he’ll up the offer.” He sweeps past John and goes to open the door, and John feels a conflicting mix of relief and disappointment that the man is leaving. Childermass pauses with his hand on the doorknob and turns to throw John a small, one sided, yet still somehow breathtaking grin. “See you at the coffee shop,” he says. And then he’s gone. 

John watches the door close behind him, listens to Childermass’ booted footsteps scrape down the path through the small garden in front of his first floor flat. He hears the loud, discordant bark of a motorcycle engine burst to life out on the street. Of course. _Of course_ Childermass has a motorcycle. It fits the rest of him so well that John shouldn't be surprised. John loathes motorcycles. Sees them as noisy and unnecessary and extremely unsafe. 

He feels unsettled by Childermass’ visit. Like someone has stuck a spoon inside him and stirred him all up. He’s swirling faster on the inside than usual, and he has to sit down and collect his thoughts and have a cup of tea before he can get back to work.


	3. Chapter 3

Childermass spends the entire trip back to Norrell’s going over his meeting with John Segundus in his head. Things had… not gone how he’d planned. Firstly, he’d expected to intimidate some random stranger into selling the books, and was not in any way prepared to be confronted with the pale, serious man from the coffeeshop. The man he can’t quite stop sneaking glances at when Emma isn’t looking. 

Childermass is quick to adapt to changing situations. It’s one of his strongest skills. He rolls with the punches, shifts and slides into new roles to fit his environment. But seeing John Segundus’ face peering out of the crack in his front door jars something loose inside him that isn’t easily picked up and put back together. He’d taken his time looking about the man’s flat, taking note of the modest number books on the shelf, the threadbare carpet that screamed ‘bachelor’, the tiny kitchen, only to stall for time to get himself back in order. 

And when he finally gets it together enough to make the offer, one he’s sure this man in his small, shabby flat, with it’s wee kitchen and thin carpet can’t possibly refuse, John Segundus immediately refuses. 

Childermass does an alright job of hiding his shock, but even when he offers the man three thousand, knowing full well that anything less has no chance of success, Segundus refuses again. 

Norrell will be deeply unhappy, but Childermass is… impressed? He hadn’t known the polite, persnickety man had it in him. And if he’s honest, he’s a bit more than impressed. Seeing John Segundus pull himself up to his full height (still a few inches short of Childermass’) and return his stare with a fierce stare of his own… it’s….well, it’s quite sexy really. Segundus has large dark eyes and an almost elfin face, narrow shoulders, thin limbs. He’s not intimidating by any standard, but he has a fierce sort of conviction and an air of...what is it? Moral righteousness? Yet not the sort that makes Childermass roll his eyes. The sort that Childermass respects. 

As they’d stared at each other, Childermass found himself fighting the urge to reach out and touch Segundus. To place his palm against that cheek, to feel the heat of it, flushed pink over china white. To drive his fingers into that dark, silky looking hair. To pull their mouths together in a sudden kiss. Something in the conviction, the spark of defiance in Segundus’ face and stance makes him suddenly hungry for the other man in a way that surprises even him. 

When his patented Childermass Stare does nothing, he breaks eye contact and makes his exit, but not before he’s tossed the man a one sided grin. He knows from experience that it does things to people, his grin. He sends it out into the ether and hopes his light, flirtatious tone comes across when he says ‘ _ See you at the coffee shop _ ,’ before leaving. This is one bridge he cannot afford to burn. For Norrell’s and his job’s sake of course, but also for his own, selfish, burning, hungry reasons. He wants lines of communication between him and this stubborn, mysterious man to stay wide open. 

Now, as he approaches Norrell’s house, he wonders how best to present this situation to his employer. He realizes that he doesn’t want Segundus to have to sell his beloved family legacy. He also knows how relentless Norrell can be when sets his sights on a book he wants, a book he simply  _ must have _ . Telling his boss ‘ _ But sir, his skin looks like cream coloured silk and he probably smells of cinnamon _ ,’ will not at all be a compelling enough reason for Norrell to cease his pursuit of this acquisition. 

He makes his way to Norrell’s library, mulling the situation over. He knocks (he always does) and is ushered in with a distracted “mmhmm” from Norrell, who, like usual, is sitting at his desk, utterly absorbed in the pages of a book. 

“Sir, I have some bad news,” he begins. Best to prepare Norrell right off, and not beat about the bush. 

“What? He won’t sell?” Norrell has already put the pieces together. Childermass should have guessed that he would. 

“No. And I don’t think you could afford to offer him enough to get him to sell. He won’t part with those books.”

He expects Norrell to get angry. He often does. The man has a temper far larger than his diminutive frame should be able to hold. He can be a steaming tea kettle when he wants to be. But Norrell doesn’t get angry. He simply lets out a mildly frustrated sigh and peers up at Childermass from his desk. “I wouldn’t be so certain about that Childermass,” he says, and Childermass can hear a hint of devilish mischief in the man’s voice. That sort of tone would usually make Childermass grin with anticipation over what underhanded yet technically legal thing Norrell had managed to cook up to secure himself the book he wants. But this time, he feels a spider’s tickle of apprehension in the pit of his stomach when he hears the slant in Norrell’s voice. Childermass is invested in this situation now. He has skin in the game. He’s gone and let himself get compromised by a pair of soft dark eyes and a stubborn mouth. 

_ Fuck _ . This isn’t good. 

“I think sir, that it’s best if we let the man be,” he knows his words will fall on deaf, book obsessed ears, but also knows he must at least try to deflect Norrell’s wolfish hunger if he can. “The man is dead set against selling.  Says those books are his family’s prized possessions . He said if you can give him 50 million pounds he’ll sell, but not for anything less.” He lets out a sort of breathless laugh along with his words, a subtle cue to Norrell that this is a silly endeavor, not worth pursuing.

To his unsurprised disappointment, Norrell only shakes his head. “Don’t you worry about him. I know men like him. We’re cut from similar cloth. I know how to pull his strings. Just you wait and see.”

“Very well sir. Anything else you need while I’m here?” Childermass knows pushing the issue won’t do a damn thing right now, so he backs off. 

He spends the remainder of the day going about his tasks with only half a mind devoted to them, while the other half relentlessly returns to thoughts of John Segundus. He hasn’t thought about someone this much in probably a decade, and can’t help but feel a bit of a fool over it. He barely knows the man. What transpired between them earlier in the day is the most interaction they’ve ever had, and he could not have been inside Segundus’ flat for more than ten minutes. He knows nothing of John Segundus’ politics, his thoughts on art, his taste in food, can’t even be sure of his sexual orientation. All he knows is the man has some passionate opinions about how he likes his latte, and that  he will not under any circumstances agree to sell Jonathan Strange’s journal or Strange’s wife’s book. 

But there’s something in the pale man’s dark eyes. Some depth of sadness and introspection that pulls Childermass closer, almost against his better judgement. Segundus has been broken. Broken somehow into tiny pieces that he’s had to painstakingly pick up and fit back together. It’s evident in the walls he’s constructed. They’re similar to his own, though smoother and subtler than Childermass’ great hunks of rock and rubble. Segundus’ walls are made of polished marble, slippery glass. Impossible to break through, impossible to scale. What hides inside that impenetrable barrier? What terrible thing happened to make the man hide himself away so thoroughly? And why do Childermass’ fingers itch to dig deeper and find out more?

He’d normally shy away from someone who exhibits signs of damage. He doesn’t want a project. He’s not the savior type. He’s had his own trauma, been shunned by the people who were supposed to love and support him, had his heart broken. He feels no compulsion to help others climb out of their own personal Hell, and knows that that sort of situation usually involves drama he can’t stomach. He knows that those people need good friends or therapists or both. Not lovers. Lovers never solve the problems we think they will. 

But Segundus is different. Whatever happened to make the shadows dance inside his eyes, he’s taking care of it on his own. He’s not looking to get fixed. Not looking for someone to ‘complete him’ with the power of True Love. He’s holding himself together well, despite the cracks at his corners and the sadness that echoes through every part of his stance, his face, his voice. Childermass wondered how he’d missed this part of Segundus all those times the man has shown up at The Bean. Perhaps he needed to see Segundus in his own spartan, threadbare flat to truly detect the grief that he keeps wrapped around him.

And any man who’ll stand up to John Childermass and tell him to (essentially) sod off, is someone with fire, someone with bite. 

Childermass is not exactly sure how he knows all this about Segundus. He just has a way with reading people, and the hints he now has surrounding Segundus’ story are fascinating to him. He wants to fill in the blanks. He wants to know what John Segundus is like beneath that sadness, or perhaps in spite of it. 

The rest of the week stretches out longer than usual. Norrell keeps schtum about his plans to acquire Segundus’ books , and Childermass doesn’t ask for further details. He hopes whatever it is, he won’t be enlisted to help, though he knows he most likely will. He’s Norrell’s tool. To be used when needed. And before this moment, he’s enjoyed his role. But things are different since he stared into John Segundus’ eyes. 

Monday finally rolls around, and Childermass can barely focus on his work at the coffee shop. Emma teases him mercilessly about how he spills the coffee beans, and when he knocks over a tower of paper takeaway cups. She asks if he forgot to wake up this morning. He puts her off with a few good natured barbs, but he still looks up every single time the bell over the door goes off, feels himself growing more and more anxious as the clock’s minute hand inches infinitesimally toward noon.

When Segundus does in fact show up, he’s a bit late. It’s 12:22, and Childermass has already half given up on him. But the moment the man enters the shop, Childermass looks up and their eyes lock and hold. Only for a heart pounding second or two until Segundus breaks the contact and walks over to his favorite table. Childermass had seen a young couple eyeing it not three minutes prior and had to suppress the urge to run over and physically shove them away from it to keep it open for Segundus. 

Segundus plunks his bag down in the opposite chair and walks over to the counter. Emma looks as if she’s entertaining the idea of taking his order, so Childermass steps smoothly in front of her. He ignores the look she gives him and turns to Segundus. “Hello again,” he says, playing it off casual, though his heart is rattling inside his chest like dice in a cup. 

“Hello Mr. Childermass,” Segundus sniffs and tugs at the sleeves of his corduroy jacket and Childermass can’t help a small smile from creeping across his face. 

“Good day Mr. Segundus,” he replies, matching formality with formality, but injecting just a little touch of flirtation into his return greeting. “Can I get you the usual?”

“Yes please,” Segundus replies, his tone a little clipped. He drops his eyes from Childermass’ face and looks down at his own hand, white and slender, where it rests on the countertop. It could be his imagination, but Childermass can swear that Segundus blushes, just a little. Light and pink across his nose and the tops of his cheeks. 

Childermass wants to say more, wants to chat him up, ask him questions, but he’s patient. Instead, he just nods and goes off to make Segundus’ coffee. Once he’s poured the steamed milk over the shots of espresso, he’s tempted to put a touch less cinnamon than the man wants on top, just to hear him primly ask for more. He shakes his head as he carefully pours the exact right amount on.  _ Get it together Childermass _ he scolds himself, before placing Segundus’ latte on the counter in front of him. 

Segundus thanks him with that soft voice, pays with exact change, gives him a curt nod of his head before turning around and walking back to his table to set up his laptop. Childermass finds himself wondering what exactly he’d need to do to make the man smile. 

For the better part of an hour, Segundus taps away at the keys on his computer and bites at his lower lip, and continually brushes his lustrous black and silver hair away from his brow. Childermass shoots so many looks at him that he apparently throws himself under the bus with Emma. The moment there’s a lull in customers, she grabs him by the elbow and drags him to the back store room. Once there, she stands in front of him, hand on her hip, knowing smile teasing at the corner of her mouth. “Bloody Hell, John Childermass, you are making a  _ fool _ of yourself!” she whispers. She’s being a bit dramatic, but Childermass has been caught pining like a daft idiot, and so he’s in no position to criticize her. 

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he lies. 

“Oh yes you do!” Emma rolls her eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh. “You’ve started crushing on Mr. Murder Pants!”

“Don’t call him that.” Childermass is surprised by the vehemence of his words, and so is Emma. She leans back, eyebrows climbing, a look of  _ oh pardon me _ on her face. “His name is John Segundus, and he’s not creepy, or a serial killer. He’s a good bloke. He’s probably just misunderstood.” He can tell his voice has dipped into the realm of desperate validation, and he doesn’t care. He won’t hear Emma mock Segundus anymore. He won’t be doing it anymore either. 

“Ok, ok. I hear you,” Emma puts up her hands and makes placating motions with them. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop making fun of your boyfriend forthwith.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” he says this part more softly. 

“No, but you clearly want him to be,” Emma counters and Childermass hates how insightful she is. “You haven’t stopped staring at him for weeks, and today it’s particularly bad. You’re acting totally smitten.”

“Well, perhaps I am. Smitten I mean,” Childermass isn’t sure why he feels so very vulnerable admitting his feelings for Segundus. Flayed open. Uncovered. He wishes Emma would stop looking at him like this. Like she’s won the lottery.

“That’s fine by me. I’m glad you’re finally admitting it.” She says before she pauses briefly, her gears turning. “How is it you know his name? I’ve been witness to every single interaction you two have had, and all I’ve ever heard is ‘a little more cinnamon please’, and ‘sure.’” 

Childermass sighs, rubs at the scruff on his chin as he considers how to answer her question. “Norrell sent me over there last Tuesday to see if  I could get him to sell me a set of books he  owns.”

“Oh shit! Really? How’s that for a coincidence?” She smiles wickedly. “Does he live in the basement of his mum’s house?”

Childermass gives her a warning look. “No, he’s got his own flat. A small place.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“And, even though Norrell authorized me to offer him a big pile of money, he wouldn’t sell to me.”

“Ah. So he turned you down,”

“He did.”

“Is that the reason why you’re looking at him like you’re a thirsty man and he’s a pint of lager?”

“No,” he frowns at her. “I’m not one of those people who gets off on rejection. And he wasn’t rejecting  _ me,  _ just Norrell’s offer. He was just… I don’t know, very firm about it. In a way I respected.” 

‘Ohhh. Someone wants daddy to spank him-”

“Emma, just shut your filthy mouth for five minutes please,” Childermass sighs again, shrugs his shoulders. “He’s special, OK? He has something interesting about him. A sort of… integrity? He’s got fire. I just… I just like him alright? And I don’t have to explain why!”

“And yet, here we are,” Emma smirks at him and he suppresses the urge to shake her by the shoulders. 

“Speaking of which,” he says, “we need to get back to work.” 

“Well, you’ve got to get back to  _ something _ ,” she says with a leer, but follows him out to the shop proper. She mercifully doesn’t tease him anymore for the rest of his shift. 


	4. Chapter 4

John is irrationally proud of himself for marching back into The Magic Bean and boldly ordering a drink from Childermass. As if his heart isn’t trying to pound it’s way out of his chest the entire time. As if he doesn’t feel as though his cheeks are crackling away like a campfire. He’s even looked the other man in the eyes upon entering. Just for a moment. But he’s done it. Hasn’t flinched away or looked down at his feet. 

He’d been on the verge of not showing up, had dawdled on his way out of the house, agonizing over which shirt to wear, over whether it would be so frightfully awkward to see Childermass again that it wouldn’t be worth going. But in the end, he decides that he’d better face the music as it were. The man had said ‘see you at the coffee shop’ after all. He hadn’t sounded angry when he’d said those words. In fact, he’d sounded a bit… flirtatious?

John is not fond of confrontation. He normally goes out of his way to avoid it at all costs. But he has a deeply stubborn streak as well. When he really does not wish to do something, and when he senses he’s being pushed, he’lll dig in his heels and stand his ground. And that’s precisely what he’d done with John Childermass. He’d stood his ground. Rejected the man’s employer’s offer, twice. 

Not that turning down three thousand pounds is a tough decision to make. It’s a paltry amount in today’s economy. It would help him buy some groceries and pay rent for a couple of months and then it would be gone as if it had never existed. Just a little financial bump in a sea of things that need paying for. Not worth letting go of his family’s greatest legacy for.

His family had experienced some financial gains from the publication of  _ My Darling Arabella _ , when they’d decided to publish, back in the early 80s, but that money was long spent. The book had had some success, had been well received. Largely because it was at the intersection of so many compelling things. International intrigue. Historical adventures. Romantic longing. Tragic loss. He still remembers snatches of Strange’s incredibly loving words sent home to his wife, Arabella. Remembers wishing someone would write to him that way some day. 

The reading public had devoured the book, but had slowly forgotten about it within the span of a single decade. The royalties had gone toward the Segundus childrens’ (John and his sister’s) university education and some dental work, and toward his parents purchasing a new house. But after that, they’d gone back to being a middle class family with not much to show for their famous heritage. 

When New Line Cinema had approached John's parents back in ‘87 to offer to buy the rights to the journal and  _ My Darling Arabella _ and turn it into a film, Julia and Frederick Segundus had surprisingly turned them down. When John had asked why and told them they could probably stand to make a quarter million from the sale, they’d told him they didn’t want to see great great uncle Jonathan’s life, a nd his love for his wife plastered across the big screen. A book was something else entirely. Publishing Arabella’s collection of her husband’s letters was a dignified thing that did not in any way change the message being told. But a film? His parents loathed the glitz and glamour of Hollywood movies. They were devoted lovers of Masterpiece Theater and the BBC’s cozy murder mystery shows and had no desire to see their family’s ancient history played out in theaters. 

“I don’t want our family connected to some posh Hollywood producer’s grand vision. Let’s just leave it.” his father had said, and his mother, always very supportive, had readily backed him up. 

John hadn’t minded either way. The money would have been welcome, but if his parents don’t want a film to be made of the book, he’s glad to honour their wishes. They raised him to be happy with the bare minimum of creature comforts. They were children of the Blitz, both of them, from working class families, and this gave them a deep appreciation for the simple pleasures in life. Having enough food. Having happy, healthy children. Of course, John had always been a nervous child, but underneath his anxiety, he was happy enough. His sister Sharon, a sunshiny woman a decade younger than he, had been blessed with effortless confidence. The sort who demands raises and throws large parties and has scads of friends. She’s settled down now with a plump, handsome husband and a brood of children on the outskirts of London, while John migrated north, kept to himself, had few friends and fewer lovers. 

He was honestly surprised when Childermass dropped the pressure of his stare and left without much of a fuss. And he’s proud of himself for not folding. It was tough to meet the other man’s piercing gaze. Childermass’ eyes had singed like dark coals against John’s face. 

John shouldn’t have been surprised when he felt telltale signs of sexual arousal perking up inside his body as their eyes had locked and held. It was only natural wasn't it? When stared down by a man with the effortless, rugged sex appeal of John Childermass, to feel oneself start to burn and curl at the edges like a piece of paper thrown onto a fire. 

John had gotten himself off to the memory of their little showdown later that night. He’s masturbated exactly four times in the past two years, and this was the first time he hadn’t thought of Stephen while doing it. Instead, he thinks of Childermass’ calloused hands gripping his thighs. Of Childermass’ ragged hair tickling his hips as his head bobs over John’s lap. He imagines what that hair would feel like clenched in his fingers as he bites his lip and spills over his pumping fist. 

Afterwards he curls onto the fetal position and lets tears leak from his eyes to wet his pillow case. He feels as if he’s cheated on Stephen, then berates himself for the thought. His therapist, Dr. Honeyfoot would say he’s being needlessly harsh on himself. He doesn’t tell Dr. Honeyfoot about his masturbatory fantasies though. The man’s a grandfather for God’s sake.

Now, he thinks Honeyfoot would be proud of him. He’s sitting in his usual spot in the coffee shop, his latte steaming gently at his elbow, trying very hard to concentrate on emails for work, (he’s a customer service rep for a large medical supply company). Meanwhile, he tracks Childermass’ movements from the corner of his eye. He’s made it here, despite being terrified of seeing Childermass again. Despite knowing that he’d rejected the man’s offer to buy his  family’s books  twice, and then that he’d wanked to a fantasy of the man’s mouth on his cock between then and now. And yet, here he is. Sticking to his routine. Getting out. Being in the world. It’s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. It would have been so easy to spend the day inside the shelter of his flat, to not risk bursting into flames at seeing Childermass’ sly, twisted face again. 

He doesn’t have too much of an opportunity to pat himself on the back though, because partway through the day, Childermass saunters up to his table. John can hardly contain the stab of nervous energy that shoots through him like a lightning bolt as he watches the man sidle over, boots scraping against the wood parkay tiles of the coffee shop floor, hips swinging just a little in a way that makes John’s insides spark.

Childermass stops right in front of John’s table. “Mr. Segundus,” he says in that low rumble of his, “can I get you anything else? Maybe a scone? We’ve had some fresh ginger biscuits come in from the local bakery this morning.” 

“Oh,” John is momentarily knocked off balance. He hadn’t been sure what Childermass could possibly want to say to him, offering him sweets hadn’t been on the long list of possibilities. In hindsight though, it should have been. The man is a barista at a coffee shop. “Um…” he follows up his ‘oh’ with more monosyllabic stumbling before getting a grip. “Ginger biscuits you say?”

“Fresh from the local bakery,” Childermass says, lips quirking up into that lopsided grin, the one that makes John want to throw himself into the man’s arms. “I could give you a couple on the house.” And before John can protest that he doesn’t deserve free baked goods, Childermass speaks again. “As payback for being such a pushy wanker the other day. It’s the least I can do.” 

“Oh!”  _ Brilliant _ . John is really killing it with the witty repartee in this exchange isn’t he? “Oh, I couldn’t let you give me anything for free,” he manages to get out. “You were only doing your job.”

“Believe me,” Childermass’ lopsided grin blooms into a genuine smile that makes John’s mirror neurons flare up, and he can’t help but smile a tiny bit in response. “You should accept the treats. My boss Norrell is going to make another offer. I know him. He doesn’t give up easily. So I’ll be by another time or two at least. This is actually part of an ongoing campaign to butter you up.” 

John smiles back in earnest now. He can’t help it. He also can’t help but bring a hand up to cover his smile, like it’s some contraband thing he’s smuggled into the shop that he can’t let Childermass see. “Well, in that case, I accept,” he says through his fingertips. He watches as Childermass nods, still grinning, then makes his way back behind the counter. John struggles and fails to keep his eyes off the man’s arse as he walks away. He consoles himself with the fact that he only glances at it, and doesn’t ogle like some pervert. 

He knows that Childermass is only flirting a little to help ingratiate himself to John so he can buy  his family’s books , and he doesn’t care. He’ll take anything he can get. He can pretend that the stunningly attractive man with the burning eyes genuinely wants him. He can sad-wank to memories of that smile for the next six months if he has to. It just feels good to have his body firing itself up again. It’s a much needed reminder that John is still alive. Still has a body at all, under the floating brain made of work facts and clouds of grief that drifts atop his neck. 

If only he can ditch the feeling that he’s being unfaithful to Stephen. Dr. Honeyfoot would gently scold him for such thoughts. He’d tell John that Stephen would want John to be happy, to move on. The same old therapist-reassuring-grieving-widower pap that’s in every romantic comedy ever written. At least in the ones where the protagonist loses a partner. But Honeyfoot is right. Stephen  _ would _ want John to move on. John knows he would, because Stephen was always so supportive of John’s happiness. John has had a few partners over the course of his life, but Stephen was absolutely the kindest and best of that short list of men. He’d always pushed John to challenge himself, to treat himself well. He wouldn’t want John to stay at home alone every night and cry himself to sleep. 

Childermass is headed back over with a small, white dessert plate, so John shrugs off his glum thoughts as the man puts the plate down in front of him. “Enjoy!” he says, and turns to leave. 

“Mr. Childermass,” John can’t believe the audacity of his mouth, and how it calls out Childermass’ name without permission from his brain. 

Childermass turns back around, face expectant, ghost of a smile still playing about his lips. “Mm?” he hums.

“Thank you,” John says. It sounds lame, but Childermass’ small act of kindness has brightened his day considerably. Not to mention how it’s banished the spectre of anxiety over whether seeing the man again had been a good idea. 

“You’re welcome,” Childermass replies, holding John’s gaze for just a beat before walking away. 

The biscuits are delicious, spicy and sweet. They go perfectly with his latte, and for the rest of the afternoon, John finds himself suppressing a fond smile whenever he looks up and spots Childermass behind the counter. 

Friday arrives eventually and John decides to broach the subject of Childermass with Dr. Honeyfoot.

Dr. Jasper Honeyfoot is a sweet man. He’s in his late sixties probably, and has a round, wrinkled face and a little double chin, a gentle voice and very kind eyes. John chose him as his therapist based on the fact that he feels safe in Honeyfoot’s cozy office, and because Honeyfoot is patient and lovely and very non-judgmental. When Stephen’s death was still a fresh, open wound, and John had first decided to find a therapist, he’d wanted someone as gentle and safe as possible. He’d been delighted to discover that on top of being an angel of a man, Dr. Honeyfoot is also a talented psychotherapist. He isn’t just a dispensary of reassuring platitudes. He really does expect John to do some hard work toward his recovery, and he can be a rather strict taskmaster when John is feeling lazy or dull or unwilling to challenge himself. 

“What’s new with you this week John?” Honeyfoot asks as he interlaces his fingers on his soft, jumper clad belly and fixes John with an inquisitive glance. 

“Well, I’ve made some progress on the erm… on the…” John doesn’t want to say ‘dating front’, doesn’t want to say ‘I’ve met someone’, because he hasn’t really. “Opening up to others thing,” he finishes a bit lamely. 

Honeyfoot smiles. “Oh lovely! Tell me more about that.” 

“Well, it’s fairly one sided I’m sure, but I’ve met this bloke at the coffee shop.”

Honeyfoot’s smile warms by a few degrees. Going from a spring day to a summer afternoon, and John congratulates himself yet again on vetting his new therapist thoroughly for signs of entrenched homophobia before signing on. “Yes,” he continues. “He um...he works behind the counter at the coffee shop I’ve been going to, The Magic Bean? And it seems I’ve developed quite the crush on him.”

“Have you let him know this?” Of course Honeyfoot asks him this next. The man is relentlessly supportive of things that are good but simultaneously terrifying for John. 

“Dear God no! Of course not!” The absolute gall of his therapist, to suggest he expresses his feelings to another living person. 

“Come now John, it’s not that preposterous of an idea. Does he fancy blokes?”

“I’ve no clue,” John lies. He lies through his teeth because he knows if he tells Honeyfoot about the gentle flirting Childermass has been doing, the man will double down. 

“Well, there’s no finding out unless you ask. Would you feel safe putting out feelers? Dropping hints?

When had his therapist become his best gal pal, he wonders as he frowns at Honeyfoot’s ever widening grin. “Of course not. The man is a barista at a coffee shop. I’ve no possible way of sussing out his sexual orientation. Look, the whole point of me telling you about him is just to express how it’s been positively affecting me. Making me sort of wake up and feel alive again. That’s what you said would be good for me didn’t you? Social interaction.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I don’t mean to push,” Honeyfoot schools his face into a more somber expression, but his vicarious glee over John’s announcement still shines in his eyes. 

“It’s fine. I’m just not ready to go into pursuit mode is all,” John huffs out a sigh and sweeps his hair away from where it continually falls in his eyes. He should cut it. But Stephen always loved it on the floppy side, and so he only gets a little trim every couple of months. 

“Well, I’m very happy to hear that you’re enjoying these new feelings,” Honeyfoot says. “And how is work? How is your family?”

“Fine, fine. Everything is going smoothly,” John waves away Honeyfoot’s questions politely, “I actually had more to say about this barista.”

“Oh! Dear me! Don’t let me bulldoze over you. Please, do go on,” Honeyfoot looks just a bit too delighted at the return to the subject of Childermass. 

“Well, to start off with, his name is John Childermass, and apparently, he works for a man named Gilbert Norrell.”

“Of Norrell’s Antiquities? The rare bookshop?” 

John nods. Apparently Norrell is more well known than he’d realized. “Yes, the very same. So, Norrell sends Childermass over to my place last Tuesday to inquire if I’d sell the man  my great uncle Strange’s Journal. Along with the letters my great aunt cobbled together from their secret correspondence during the Napoleonic wars. The journal is the one I told you I wanted to donate to the Soldiers of Shropshire museum.”

“Oh my! How interesting. What did you say?” 

“I turned him down. The money wasn’t good enough. Actually, short of making me independently wealthy, no money will ever be good enough. But the point is, that now this man I’ve developed this... crush on, has two points of connection with my life, and I’m finding that a bit… unsettling?”

“Why unsettling?” Honeyfoot looks genuinely confused. “I’d have thought you’d be pleased to be more connected to someone you find attractive.”

“Yes, if I were a normal, well adjusted individual-”

“You are most definitely well adjusted John, don’t down-talk yourself.”

“Yes, yes. What I meant to say is the fact that both connections are to do with the man’s jobs, since both connections are based in obligatory behaviors for him, it’s not been wonderful for my self esteem. In both instances, someone is quite literally _ paying him _ to talk to me.”

Honeyfoot frowns gently and considers John with thoughtful eyes for a moment before speaking. “I have a feeling there’s something you’re not telling me,” he says, and John curses his therapist’s sharp intuition. The man looks like nothing so much as an aged teddy bear, but his mind is still sharp as a steel trap. “You don’t strike me as the type to bring up a crush to your therapist without there being some indication that those feelings might be returned. Otherwise, you’d be more likely to write it off as a lost cause and not bring him up at all.” 

John can’t help but let out a small bark of laughter at Honeyfoot’s apt grasp of the inner workings of his rabbit warren of a brain. “You’ve caught me,” he admits with a shrug. “Yes, I’ve picked up on some… tension. Some flirtation coming from him. But that could just be in service of buttering me up to make a sale for his boss. Or in getting better tips at the coffee shop.” 

“Let me ask you John. How many straight men do you know that flirt with other men for the sake of making a little money? It’s not the most common thing in the world, is it?”

“I suppose not,” John admits grudgingly. “But it does happen.” 

“It does. True. But I think Occam's Razor states that it’s more likely that he fancies you.”

“Are you my therapist or my matchmaker?” John shoots back at him, unable to stop a small smile from forming on his lips. 

“Why can’t I be both?” 

Later that night, after a sensible dinner and an hour or two of telly, John wanks to thoughts of Childermass again. This time, he pictures Childermass lying beneath him, saying John’s name over and over in that low, rolling thunder voice, throwing his head back as he comes, hair spreading across John’s pillow. Afterward, John lets himself slip off to sleep in a post orgasmic haze. It isn’t until the next morning that he remembers that he didn’t even cry.


	5. Chapter 5

“I want you to do some research on John Segundus,” Norrell says as he tips his teacup toward his mouth to take a sip. Childermass feels a flash of interest hearing Segundus’ name, followed immediately by a dull throb of apprehension. 

“Research sir?” He opts to play dumb for the moment and see if Norrell will elaborate. 

“You know, look around on social media. Dig into his employment. Check up on his friends and family. Find me a weak spot I can press on to get those books of his.”

Norrell’s suggestion is so horribly disrespectful and invasive, yet simultaneously so very Norrell that Childermass is struck momentarily speechless. When he regains his voice he asks, “Is all of this really necessary sir?”

“It is Childermass, and I’m surprised that you’re questioning me.” There’s a threatening edge to Norrell’s tone. It doesn’t happen often, as he and Childermass almost always work as a unit. But when he senses that he’s being thwarted in even the gentlest of ways, Childermass’ employer can turn waspish and suspicious at the drop of a hat. 

“If you must know,” Norrell continues, blessedly dropping his snappishness, “I plan on selling the rights to the journal so it can be made into a film. I did some digging of my own and found out that New Line Cinema had made an offer to the family back in the 80s, to make a film of the wife’s letters, and they’d shot it down. If I buy the journal and sell the film rights to the studio, I’ll own the rights. And imagine how much more interested they’d be when I have Strange’s own, full account of his experiences. Rather than some romantic drivel he sent to his wife. I’ll make a far greater profit from selling the film rights and collecting on royalties than it’ll ever be worth at auction, even twenty, thirty years from now.” 

Childermass is surprised. He’s never before heard Norrell have the least bit of interest in the film industry. But, as the decades have gone by and books have been overshadowed more and more by films and television shows and web series, Norrell’s business has seen a slump in sales. Perhaps that’s why he’s diversifying. 

“This will of course free me up to offer the man much more money. So I’ll have you bring him the offer of… say… fifteen thousand? Going as high as twenty? Then, if he turns that down, we’ll simply put pressure on him in some other way. That’s why I want you to do some research. Find out what he likes. Find out what he needs. Even what he’s afraid of. I’m certain I can engineer a way to make selling look far more appealing if I find the right button to push.” 

For the first time since he’s started working for Norrell, Childermass feels a surge of genuine resentment for the man. He knows this is because he fancies Segundus. He knows that if Norrell were talking of some dull bloke he’s never met, he’d be wickedly delighted in the mafia boss nature of Norrell’s tactics. He’d never minded Norrell’s shady dealings in the past. But now, things are different. 

He doesn’t express any of this to his boss. Merely nods, says, “I’ll do my best,” and swiftly leaves Norrell’s company. He can’t stand to look at the man right now. He feels twin tendrils of guilt and fear twining together in the pit of his stomach as his mind starts picking at ways to deflect Norrell from this hyper-fixation. It won’t be an easy task, but the alternative, forcing Segundus to sell the things he finds precious. Or, almost as bad, ruining Segundus’ opinion of him irreparably, are highly unpleasant outcomes to consider. 

He toys with the idea of warning Segundus about the sale, but that’s a dangerous line to walk. It switches his loyalties firmly away from his employer and toward a man he barely knows. Perhaps he can visit Segundus, chat him up a bit and see if there’s some pain-free way to make the sale more appealing to him. And if not, well, he’ll just have to reconsider what to tell Norrell… what to do next. 

Figuring it’s best to get it over with, and because he’s been yearning to see the man again, he decides that today is a good day to visit. It’s Saturday. Perhaps Segundus won’t even be home. He might be out running errands or … on a date? This ghost of a thought makes Childermass’ stomach turn over. He’s fairly certain the man is single though. His flat had looked like the quintessential bachelor pad. No framed photos of a lover on the shelves or bookcases. No telltale signs of a softer touch that isn’t Segundus’ in the decor. No piles of dvds lying around where Segundus and a lover might curl up and watch telly together in the evenings. And really, how could anyone be kissing those lips of his? Those pale, frowning lips look decidedly unkissed. Those tight shoulders and that clenched jaw are surely signs that no one has fucked John Segundus in a long long time. 

Before he can lose himself in vivid fantasies of exactly why he’d be the best man for that job, Childermass heads out to the garage to hop on his motorcycle and drive to Segundus’ place. 

He pulls up outside Segundus’ flat and notes with pleasure that the man’s small, silver car is parked out front. He knocks and waits, heart pounding and palms irritatingly damp for Segundus to come to the door. It takes so long that Childermass is on the verge of knocking a second time, but the door does open, and Segundus is standing there, looking charmingly like some soft, subterranean rodent, blinking in the bright morning sunshine. “Mr. Childermass,” he says. Is he a bit breathless? Or perhaps he was just cleaning up before he’d answered the door. “You certainly do enjoy calling on me in the mornings.”

Childermass belatedly realizes that it’s not even 9 yet. He and Norrell both wake up criminally early, often with the crack of dawn, and so he hadn't thought to look at the clock before coming over here. Hadn’t thought of much at all really. He’d just hopped on his motor bike and gunned it for Segundus’s flat. 

“Oh. Right. Sorry ‘bout that. I can come back later…” 

Segundus though steps back and opens the door, welcomes Childermass inside with a wry grin. “No, it’s no problem. I’m an early riser. Come on in.” 

Childermass enters and for a brief moment, the two of them stand and regard each other. Childermass realizes that Segundus is in tracksuit bottoms and an old t-shirt. Perhaps that’s what he sleeps in. It makes him look even softer and more touchable than usual. He tries desperately to tamp down the arousal this causes and focuses instead on how inappropriate it is to show up at the man’s house at this ungodly hour.

“Would you care for some coffee?” Segundus asks. “I know you work around the stuff all day. In fact this is your coffee, or rather, The Magic Bean’s coffee I’ve just brewed up. But if you’d like some…” He lets the invitation hang in the air between them.

“Sure,” Childermass grins, beyond grateful that it’s Segundus who’s taken it upon himself to break the awkward silence. “I could use a cup.” 

He watches as Segundus walks to the kitchen, watches his slim, pale fingers pull open cabinets, watches the muscles in his back twitch as he tugs open the refrigerator door. “Cream? Sugar?” he asks.

“Black’s fine.” He can’t help but notice that Segundus smirks a bit at this. To be fair, black coffee is as much a synonym for “tough guy” as a motorbike is… so is Childermass’ leather jacket and his long, perpetually messy hair (it’s not his fault if it fights off every comb or brush it’s ever met). He knows he’s something of a stereotype, but prefers to see himself more as a prototype instead. He’d never watched James Dean movies or action films as a kid. He’d been too busy learning to survive when his parents had made it clear he was no longer welcome. 

Whatever tropy-masculine-tough-guy aspects of his personality he now possesses, they were all born out of his own free will, his personal taste, or by necessity. The coffee for example, it's far easier to fix yourself a cup on the go when you’re sleeping on other people’s sofas, or grabbing it on a construction site, or in a ship’s galley, if you take it black and simple. 

Segundus hands him a steaming, blue ceramic mug and invites him to have a seat at the small round dining room table. His flat is so small that the dining room is delineated by nothing more than a square of beige linoleum tiles, situated between the miniscule kitchen and the small living room. There’s a hallway leading from the living room to what is probably Segundus’ bedroom, but Childermass firmly keeps his thoughts away from that concept. Segundus. Bedrooms. _Beds_. Instead, he sits down opposite Segundus at the table and takes a sip of his coffee. 

“What can I do for you today, Mr. Childermass?” Segundus asks, employing a touch of sarcasm. They both know why Childermass is here. 

“Well, just as I predicted, my boss wants to offer you more money for your book.” Might as well get to it. No point in pretending he’s here for a social call. 

“And how much are you empowered to give this time? Please tell me he’s taken my request of fifty million into consideration. I could do with a permanent tropical holiday.” 

Childermass snorts. It’s a thing he only does when surprised by something humorous. He covers for his horrible lapse in coolness by taking another sip of coffee, using the rim of the cup to hide his sudden smile. “Not quite that much I’m afraid,” he replies. “But enough to significantly sweeten the pot.” 

“I doubt it,” says Segundus, and while his words are dismissive, he’s let loose another small smile, like the one Childermass had pulled out of him on Monday. His smile is like a brightly coloured bird, flitting out from the underbrush to fly away before you can quite track it with your eyes. Childermass wants desperately to make it happen again, but he refocuses on why he’s here. 

“Norrell told me I can offer you fifteen thousand.” He says it with finality. With authority. He says it in a tone that implies that Segundus would be a fool to turn him down. 

“No deal,” Segundus replies immediately. Childermass knew he’d say as much, but he’s here to do a job. He can offer 20, but he holds onto that lukewarm trump card for a moment. 

“Why are you so dedicated to these books?” He asks instead. “Norrell will take great care of them. He’ll treat them like a prized possessions, and you’ll be able to get quite a financial boost out of the deal.” He doesn’t mention Segundus’ spare living arrangements, but instead subtly lets his eyes play over the bare walls and second hand furniture visible over Segundus’ shoulder. He knows how to get a point across without using words. 

Segundus looks pensive for a moment before speaking. “It doesn’t have to do with money,” he says eventually. “It has to do with family. With the value of the journal and the letters. They tell a thrilling story and they’re part of our country’s history. Part of the history of my family as well. Norrell has no right to them.” He takes a sip of his coffee, looking defiantly at Childermass over the rim of the cup with those eyes of his. 

Childermass hides what this does to him by clearing his throat and shifting a bit in his chair. “What about twenty?” he asks, throwing his final card down carelessly, knowing it won’t do any good.

“Thousand? No thank you,” Segundus is meeting his gaze again, they’re staring at each other again. Rather than employ the same intimidating glare he used last time though, Childermass drops his gaze and lets out a long sigh of disappointment. 

“Very well then. I can see you’re dead set against selling. So, tell me more about this journal of your great great uncle’s. Why’s it so special?” He doesn’t bother asking about the letters. They’ve been published for decades, and according to Norrell, they’re largely romantic in nature, with short passages detailing some of Strange’s adventures in the peninsula. The journal on the other hand, the thing the family has kept close to their collective chests for two hundred years now, is reported to contain fascinating details, never before seen by the public. The two together, as companion pieces would be a compelling prospect for a very lucrative, maybe Oscar/BAFTA winning film. 

He thinks for a moment that Segundus will grow suspicious at his request or tell him it’s time for him to leave, but surprisingly, he complies. 

"Well, for starters, the journal is incredibly well written,” Segundus begins, quickly warming to the subject. As the man continues to speak, Childermass realizes that this isn’t about Norrell’s acquisition anymore. It’s about him learning more about Segundus for Childermass’ own sake.

“My great great uncle was educated by a long string of highly trained tutors. It appears his father was something of a cold, heartless man who actively disliked his own son, but he had lots of money, so he could afford to give him a stellar education. Strange was an accomplished writer. He also learned to speak French along with English and spoke it flawlessly, which made him an excellent choice to become a spy behind enemy lines.” 

Segundus’ voice becomes more animated as he speaks. He puts down his coffee cup and begins gesticulating with his hands. His eyes light up and his cheeks pink just a little. Childermass feels his heart swell at seeing the other man open up this way, and he hopes that the warmth pooling in his chest isn’t also spilling itself across his face.

“He meets his wife Arabella when he’s in his mid twenties and falls head over heels in love with her. They marry, and he enlists in the military. He’s an intelligent gentleman from a wealthy background and so he makes captain quickly, but rather than lead British soldiers, he becomes convinced that he can infiltrate Napoleon's forces and send word of his movements and battle plans back to his commanding officer, Lord Wellington.”

Even though Childermass already knows the general gist of the story from Norrell, he finds himself transfixed by Segundus’ telling of it. Segundus continues to explain how Strange had snuck letters out by addressing them to a French woman living in a town midway between where Napoleon's troops were staying and where Wellington’s were camped, saying that she was his aunt. The letters to Wellington contained news of the movements of Napoleon’s troops and the likely locations of ambushes to British soldiers. He also snuck out letters to Arabella Strange, to be sent along by courier to their home in Shropshire. 

By the time Segundus has laid out the plot of the book his cheeks are very pink and his eyes are shining with the telling of it. He’s waving his hands through the air, and he’s blessed Childermass with several real, genuine smiles, and even a chuckle or two. Each smile hits Childermass like a soft hammer-blow to the chest, and he’s glad he’s been relegated to the role of audience member, so he can yearn pathetically in silence. It’s easier to avoid detection if he doesn’t have to speak.

“He writes down all of his findings, his daily experiences, talking to and befriending the other French troops, some of which you can tell he truly loves as friends, which is sort of heart wrenching in a different way… he writes it all down in his leather bound journal. He sleeps with the thing under his pillow, keeps it stowed inside his shirt during the day. Once, a bullet even glances off it during a battle and it saves his life! You can still see the bullet’s indent on the side, near the binding.”

“Oh, and the love letters he writes to Arabella,” Segundus lets out a deep sigh and his face takes on a soft, sentimental sort of glow. “He loves her so deeply, so completely. It’s humbling really. And he writes her such profoundly beautiful words. About how much he misses her, and longs to be with her. How he hopes they can start soon on making a passel of children. And of course that’s extra heart breaking, because while he does make it home for a visit in between campaigns, and they do end up having a child, he’s caught and k-killed” - he stammers - “before he can make it home for good. He never meets his son.” Childermass wonders why that word trips Segundus up the way it does. 

“He gets drunk one night, gets careless and forgets to take the journal with him when he leaves his tent the next day. It’s discovered and he’s apprehended and shot. The French woman, the spy who passes the letters on to Wellington is also apprehended and put to death. She was a very brave woman, a hero too. Luckily, one of the soldiers he befriends sneaks the journal out of the hands of the French and it somehow gets back to Arabella.” 

The man lets out another sigh, and Childermass has to look down into his coffee cup, because he can’t stand Segundus’ beauty another second. He’s not at all sure if it’s the story Segundus tells, how animated and flushed he’s become from it, or it’s just something inside Childermass that’s changed and broken open. Whatever the reason, he can’t bear to look at Segundus any longer and averts his eyes. It’s either that or do something, say something entirely inappropriate and unwanted.

 _Shit,_ he’s in real trouble. 

“Oh listen to me, going on and on. I hope I'm not boring you.” Segundus’ voice has grown a little anxious again. The spell of the journal has broken, and he’s toying with his coffee cup on the table and biting his lower lip. 

“No, not at all,” Childermass is quick to reassure him, only able to look at the other man in small glances, in little sips of his eyes. “It’s a fascinating tale. Thank you for telling it.” He pauses, gathering his courage before continuing. “And what about you, Mr. Segundus? What’s your story?”

Segundus shrugs. “You’ve let me yammer on for far too long Mr. Childermass. How about you tell me a bit more about yourself. You’ve been making my coffee for months, and I don’t know a blessed thing about you.” 

Childermass hadn’t expected the tables to be turned on him so swiftly, but he rallies. “Well, there’s not much to say.” He tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear and clears his throat again. He keeps his eyes trained on his cup and away from Segundus’ dangerous face. “I grew up a bit rough. Lived in shelters for a while. Was homeless. Did a fair bit of pick-pocketing in my early days. When I got older, I made money by working odd jobs here and there. Sort of went where the wind took me. Eventually, Norrell and I found each other and I’ve been working for him ever since. He’s a good boss. Despite being a bit of a curmudgeon.” He pauses, not knowing what else to say. His life suddenly sounds a bit unimpressive when told to someone he desperately wants to impress. “I started working at The Bean a couple of years ago to get out and meet people, to make some extra money in my time off.” 

“It appears to have worked well,” Segundus says, and Childermass glances up at him. 

“What’s worked well?” he asks, momentarily confused by the question. 

“You’ve met me,” Segundus replies, and smiles again, and Childermass’ fate is sealed. He can see all the possibilities laid out in front of him, like the plot of Strange’s life, like the road beneath his motorbike’s wheels. He can see himself dating Segundus, falling deeply in love, making an utter fool of himself. He can see Segundus growing sick of his cynicism and his inconsistent nature. He can see the horrible, bloody painful end of the thing before it even begins. 

Or worse. Segundus isn’t interested. He leaves Childermass a pining, yearning, ridiculous mess of a man, having to watch him sip his lattes at his table in the corner forever, without ever getting to kiss those lips. Jesus. He’s a bloody idiot. He’s in so much trouble. 

Segundus is speaking again and Childermass forces himself to focus.

“You said you grew up on the streets. Were you orphaned? I mean, feel free to tell me to sod off if I’m being too pushy, but I’m curious.” 

Childermass finds himself confronted with the perfect length of rope to begin hanging himself with. Might as well string it up and tie the noose while he’s at it. “Well, my parents, they weren’t happy when I told them I was bisexual,” he says, his heart beginning to pound at the confession. “They threatened to kick me out, so I obliged them and left home when I was sixteen.” In the brief moment of silence after he says this, he thinks belatedly that the hints he’s picked up from Segundus could all be false. The man could be straight and homophobic. Hell, he could have been raised strictly religious. He hadn’t stopped to think of any of this before baring his soul to the other man, and so he waits, with bated breath for Segundus’ response. He keeps his eyes down at his cup and waits, heart hammering. 

“Oh,” Segundus breathes out softly, then after a short pause, “I suppose I was lucky. My parents were quite understanding when I told them I was gay at age seven.” 

Childermass feels those words like a bell tolling inside his heart. He looks up at Segundus and smiles and the pale man smiles back. It’s all a bit too much for Childermass to take, and so he averts his eyes again. 

“That’s a blessing,” he says. “I wish my parents had been more like yours. But, in some ways it made me a far stronger person to leave them and strike out on my own. I learned a lot and I turned out just fine without them.”

“Still, it must have been hard to be on your own at such a young age,” Segundus’ voice is so very kind, and something inside Childermass snaps. 

He stands up abruptly, shoves his hands into his pockets. “I think I’ve taken up enough of your time,” he says. “I start at the coffee shop in a few, so I’ll just head out now.” 

“Alright,” is that disappointment he can hear in Segundus’ voice? Or is his desperate mind imagining it? “Well, thank you for stopping by. I’m sorry I can’t make your boss happy. I certainly hope you won’t get in any trouble for me refusing. You can tell him I was a wily adversary if it will make things go easier for you.”

Childermass grins down at his shoes, because if he looks at Segundus again, he’ll drop to his knees and propose marriage. And that sort of thing is usually considered sudden when you’ve only known the person for 10 collective hours. “I’ll tell him you threatened to run me through with a kitchen knife,” he says instead, and is rewarded by a warm chuckle from Segundus. “See you Monday,” he says.

“See you Monday,” Segundus replies, and this makes Childermass ludicrously happy, like they’ve just agreed to a date or something. He politely takes his leave before he can humiliate himself, and rides to work in a pink haze. Saturdays are his days off from Norrell, and he likes picking up late morning shifts at the shop.

It’s only when he arrives at The Magic Bean that he realizes he hadn’t learned a single thing about Segundus’ personal life, and had spent the whole time learning about his great great great uncle, Jonathan Strange instead. No matter. It will give him an excuse to go back. 


	6. Chapter 6

“No sir, please don’t use a hammer. You can adjust the height of the stool simply by spinning it.” Segundus rolls his eyes as the frustrated man on the other end of the phone lets loose with another five straight minutes of grousing about the chair he bought from Security Medical Supply & Co. 

Part of Segundus misses the old days, when he worked as an artist. He’d draw anatomical illustrations for medical text books, commissions for private buyers, or even work painting murals on the walls of local businesses. He’d gone to art school in his early 20s, and while he’d always had to have a side job to help pay the bills, it had been the art he’d loved the most. 

He was definitely guilty of painting too many portraits of Stephen. He had this thing he did, where he loved painting small, hyper-realistic portraits of friends and family in period piece clothing, with period typical hair styles and giving them as gifts. People adored them, loved seeing themselves in corsets and silk cravats or ornate powdered wigs. 

He was particularly fond of fashions from the early to mid 19th century, and so there were several paintings of Stephen, in a sharp black suit and white neck cloth, looking regal and stunning in a tricorn hat or holding a gold tipped walking stick. One large one in which Stephen wore a tall, silver crown and was holding a scepter. Like a king. He’d been an artist in love. How was he supposed to resist? Stephen had been extremely pleased with the portraits, though he’d gotten shy and told Segundus he should find a better model to base his works on. 

He was always modest about his looks. Which was laughable, because he’d been one of the most beautiful men John had ever met. Stephen, with his high cheekbones, large, liquid brown eyes, brilliant, straight white teeth. The most gorgeous smile. John realizes far too late after Stephen’s death that his boyfriend was the one who truly taught John to smile. Before they’d gotten together, it felt as if it were a skill John simply did not possess. Stephen had pulled the smiles out of John, had taught his lips the shape of them with his kisses. 

After the accident, every time John looks at a blank canvas, he sees Stephen’s face, and he soon realizes he can’t draw anymore. Can’t paint either. He’s done with art. That part of him died with Stephen, and so he’d put the sketch books and paints and pencils away, cancelled his CSP prescription. Now he works full time for Security Supply & Co., handling people’s nit picky questions about their medical products. It pays alright, and really, his flat is small and the rent’s affordable. He rarely ever goes out, has few expenses and doesn't eat much. 

Before Stephen came along, John had been a bit of a hermit. And now, he’s sinking back into it again in the wake of Stephen’s death. Since it happened, John hasn’t smiled, not truly. Not until Monday afternoon last, when Childermass had offered him free biscuits. And then again, yesterday afternoon when he’d told Childermass about Strange’s letters. Now, it seems, he feels the urge to smile whenever he even thinks about Childermass. Which is quite often.

Tomorrow is Monday, and he’ll see Childermass again, and he can hardly wait. He knows he’s developed a ridiculous crush, and now, with the knowledge that Childermass is attracted to men, that crush is growing, flourishing, filling up his insides with flitting butterfly wings and spinning firecrackers of excitement and possibility. He catches himself humming in between phone calls at work. When a neighbor leaves his pumping club music on in his car right outside John’s window while he runs in to fetch something, a thing John particularly hates, and he finds himself nodding his head to the bloody stupid beat. Pretty soon, he’ll be an utterly useless human being. Nothing but a ball of warm honey, held together loosely by a button down shirt and a corduroy jacket. 

Maybe he should buy some new clothes? He wears the same things all the time. Maybe he should cut his hair. He thinks of how Childermass might look at him if he cut his hair shorter. Would he remark on it? Would he like it? He gets a little bit too caught up in what Childermass would think. He’ll have to talk to Dr. Honeyfoot about this Childermass Thing again on Thursday. He doesn’t want to be that person who owes their recovery to a new romantic interest. He’s suspicious of this sudden good mood. Feels like he should be finding things that aren’t a sexy coffee shop barista to help work his way out of his grief. 

But can’t he just allow himself this feeling right now? There’s nothing wrong with whistling and humming and nodding his head along with bad music is there? For the better part of the day he lets himself ride the dopamine high he gets when he thinks of Childermass’ smiling face. He lets himself imagine just a little bit what will happen when he sees the man tomorrow. But only a little bit. So he doesn’t overthink it.

After work ends, he heads to the local shops to buy new clothes and get a haircut. He buys three new shirts, a black one, a dark wine red one and a cream coloured one. He buys new trousers too, and even splurges on a smart new jacket, a black denim one with black buttons that he thinks makes him look rather sexy if he does say so himself. He gets a haircut, shorter on the back and sides, while leaving the top longer and a bit floppy (must still pay homage to the dead lover…he’s not completely out of the woods yet). He heads home feeling strangely triumphant about his purchases. As if the earth had been trying it’s best to cover him over, and he’s somehow outwitted it, has dug himself out to stand in the sun again by buying some new shirts. 

He rises early the next morning. He knows he doesn’t usually head over to The Magic Bean until noon, but there’s nothing wrong with going a bit early is there? He showers and shaves, even puts a bit of product in and uses the dusty blow dryer he’d abandoned in his hall closet to make his hair look extra glossy. He puts on his new wine dark shirt, black trousers and black denim jacket, grabs his laptop bag and heads out for the coffee shop an hour early. 

Childermass is behind the counter when John walks in, and they make some heart pounding eye contact right off the bat.  _ Excellent _ . His table is taken today, but luckily, the large green armchair in the opposite corner is available and he plunks his laptop bag down on it and heads to the counter. Childermass is standing there, ready to take his order. His sly grin is wider than usual, or maybe it’s just John’s imagination. Either way, John can’t stop smiling like a complete idiot.

“Good morning, Mr. Childermass,” he says.

“Good morning, Mr. Segundus,” Childermass replies with a small nod of his head.

“Oh sweet Jesus,” says Emma, rolling her eyes and stomping off toward the storage room in her big black boots. 

Childermass throws a casual scowl after her, but turns back to John smiling again. “The usual?” he asks and John nods and smiles even wider in response. He’s almost certain he’s at maximum capacity at this point. In danger of his face splitting open horizontally. 

Childermass slinks over to the espresso machine, and John takes the opportunity to study him. He’s wearing a rare long sleeve shirt, in a gray (or is it a very faded blue?) colour. The sleeves are rolled up, and  _ dear Lord _ , why are rolled sleeves so much sexier than short sleeves? Something about the way they highlight the long ropes of muscle running down the length of Childermass’ forearms. How the material stretches just a little bit over the modest bulge of his bicep above the rolled cuff. John lets his eyes wander over the mess of Childermass’ hair, the cocky jut of his hip as he waits for the espresso shot to finish dribbling into the cup. He looks away swiftly when Childermass turns around, and luckily he isn’t caught staring. He still has his dignity. He still has to make some small attempt to keep cool. Can’t keep gazing longingly at the man as if he’s one of the pieces of cake in the glass display case next to the register. 

Childermass brings the latte, with yes, the perfect amount of cinnamon on, over to the counter and places it down in front of John. “You’ve had a haircut,” he says, and John feels his face flush with heat. 

“Oh, yes. Yes, I have. Was tired of it falling in my eyes all the time,” he’s seconds away from scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor like a shy primary school boy. 

“It looks good. I like it,” Childermass is smiling at him, and John’s face is too hot. He’ll ignite the flour particles floating in the air from the aforementioned bakery display and start a fire that burns the place down. 

“Thank you,” he manages, picks up his latte and makes a panicked escape back to the green armchair and small table where he’ll set up for the day. He can almost feel Childermass’ eyes on him as he leaves the counter. 

For the next hour, there’s the daily lunch rush to deal with, and Childermass and Emma run around like madmen, making lattes, pouring coffees, using the blender to concoct those frankly ridiculous milkshakes people call “iced lattes” and “iced macchiatos.” The new boy, Davey is on the schedule today too. He looks to be in his late teens or early 20s, probably took the job to help pay his expenses through uni. John can hear Childermass and Emma barking instructions at him, but also complimenting him on a job well done, being patient despite the rush. 

He focuses in on work, responding to customer complaint emails. He brokered this one-day-a-week email task specifically so that he could accomplish it at the coffee shop. His boss at Security Medical had been fine with it, because, let’s face it, someone has to empty the inbox, and it might as well be John. He’s a conscientious worker and a very fast typist. There’s fifteen emails to respond to today. Not a lot. John gets started, tapping away, explaining that no, they can’t give refunds on plastic bedpans simply because grandpa decided he didn’t like the color after two weeks of use. 

By 1:30, the rush is over, and John only has three emails left. He slows down, sips his latte, shoots glances over at Childermass and catches the man looking back. Feels his face heat up again and looks away. He’s forgotten how fun it all is in the beginning. He’s missed this part. The flirtation. The dancing around each other. The thrill of uncertainty. He’s fairly certain that Childermass is attracted, but he can’t be 100% sure and that’s the part that makes it more exciting. He feels safe enough in the strong possibility of the other man’s attraction for him to be reasonably sure it exists, but it hasn’t been confirmed yet, leaving him with ample opportunities to pine and wish and hope. 

He’d sort of skipped this stage with Stephen. They’d met at a friend’s party. John had spotted the stunning dark skinned man over by the staircase, chatting with a mutual friend’s wife, and had been completely unable to stop staring. He’d somehow found a way to ingratiate himself into their conversation, something about the work of an author whose books he’s passably familiar with. He’d been better at conversations back then. 

After chatting amiably with Mr. Stunning and their mutual friend for a minute or two, said friend had finally remembered to introduce them. “Stephen Black, this is my dear friend John Segundus. John, Stephen does volunteer work with me down at the shelter. I can’t believe you two have never met before.” 

The man had given him a brilliant, knock-your-socks of smile and had grasped John’s hand in a large, warm hand of his own. “A pleasure to meet you,” he’d said in response. “It  _ is _ a miracle that our paths haven’t crossed before now.” They’d started talking and hadn’t stopped until 2am. Had talked all the way down the street to where their cars were parked near one another. At this point, John had ended up gently pushing Stephen up against his drivers’ side door and kissing him. It had just needed to be done, and Stephen had been looking at him so sweetly, with such fire in his eyes. 

John hadn’t done anything like that before, been introduced to a bloke, then ended up snogging him silly that same night. He tended to move more slowly and cautiously, but Stephen was just so warm, so welcoming. So very...easy. He knows it’s a ridiculous cliche, but when their lips had met for the first time, it had felt as if John’s whole life had been leading up to that one, singular moment. 

He realizes suddenly that he’s not sad. He’s remembering Stephen, thinking of their first kiss, and he’s... happy. It’s a lovely, fond memory, and he doesn’t feel the sharp tug of grief that usually accompanies it. He only has a brief moment to wonder at this profound change when Childermass sautners up to his chair. 

“How’s work,” the man asks, cocking an eyebrow, leaning with one hand against the wall near where John is sitting. 

“It’s ah, the same as usual. People complaining about our company’s products. Me, calming them down.” He feels his face crack into another dopey smile as he looks up at the man leaning over him. 

“And how do you calm them down, pray tell?” Childermass is definitely flirting. His eyes are saying lots of spicy things that his mouth isn’t. 

“Oh, you know, with clever manipulations and promises. And begging. I do a fair bit of begging and apologizing.” 

“Begging huh?” 

_ Oh my _ , 

“Haha! Well, you know, promising them free samples. Being nice enough so that we don’t lose their patronage. No actual, literal begging.” John strives diligently to ignore the sudden, compelling and thoroughly filthy images that bloom inside his mind as Childermass continues to smile down at him. 

“Sounds like quite an interesting job.”

“It isn’t really,” John waves his hand dismissively. “I’m a customer service support person for a large, medical supply company. Not exactly fascinating work.” 

“Bet you’re good at it though,” more grinning. More spicy eye-talk. John feels the sudden urge to remove his jacket as his body’s temperature climbs in response to the look in Childermass’ eyes. 

“I do a fair job.” He’s desperate for a change of topic, needs to move the discussion away from himself. Everything feels too intense and sharp. Like all they need is half an excuse to get physical. Like it’s a good thing that they’re in public, or John will launch himself at Childermass. “How’s the new barista working out? He  _ is _ knew isn’t he? I’ve only seen him here a couple of times.”  _ There we go. A neutral topic. Excellent job John _ .

“Who, Davey? Yeah, it’s only his second week. He’s doing well. Fast learner. Emma’s training him up, which is good because she’s the best. She taught me everything I know.”

“Well, she certainly taught you to make a good latte,” John picks up the aforementioned drink and takes a sip to cover up yet another hot, dizzy smile. 

“Glad you like them,” Childermass looks genuinely flattered, his eyes crinkle up and go all warm. He glances back at the counter and sees a line forming. John can tell by minute changes in his body language that he’s going to head back to work any second. 

He feels his mouth open and the words spill out before he can think consciously about saying them. “Would you… would you like to do something after you get off work? Maybe get a bite to eat?” That’s it. He’s said it. He’s put it out there.

Childermass turns back to look at him, surprise written across his features, and for a split second, John panics. Thinks he’s overstepped, read things wrong. But then, Childermass’ sly grin is back, creeping up one side of his face. “Yeah. I’d like that. I get off at six. Is that too late?”

  
“No, that’s just fine. I can go take care of a few things at home and um.. come back then? Meet you here?”

“That works,” Childermass gifts John with a few more seconds of his grin before he walks off back toward the counter. 

John is momentarily stunned by his own bravery. It was as if his mouth had completely disconnected from his brain. As if his mouth had gone rogue and had taken things into its own hands… or rather… lips. 

He finishes up his last few emails in a haze and packs up to leave. On his way out he catches Childermass’ eye again and holds it for a second before he pulls open the door. 

The sun is shining when he exits The Bean, and the air is alive with possibilities. Before he knows it, he’s whistling again. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: panic attack/anxiety
> 
> also..... smut

Childermass is honestly surprised when John asks him out. Surprised and relieved. For one thing, it frees him of the responsibility of having to do it. For he would have, eventually. But he still feels a sort of professional guilt involved, being that he’s working for Norrell, and Segundus is Norrell’s next big mark as it were. 

He wants to spend more time with John. Wants it badly. But he’s also supposed to be investigating him for weak spots. Finding buttons for Norrell to push. He still hasn’t quite figured out how to get around this. He has no intention of data mining Segundus for personal weaknesses. Plans fully on telling Norrell that the man’s a closed book. But this means lying to his employer. His employer of two decades, who trusts him and relies on him. And it means omitting telling some very damaging things to Segundus. For example, neglecting to tell him that he’s supposed to be working on ways to pry the man’s beloved family legacy from his hands and deliver it to Norrell. 

He’s stuck in a tough spot, but he knows that he wants more of Segundus, in any capacity he can get, and that he’d rather risk upsetting Norrell than hurting Segundus. It’s a delicate balance. 

On one hand, he needs to protect his home, his preferred livelihood and his relationship with a man who is almost a brother. They’re separated from a familial bond by the stiff boundary of class and employer/employee relations, and by Norrell’s own maddening obliviousness around normal human emotions. But Norrell has been a constant in his life for virtually half of it. He’s offered support and companionship and shelter, and they’re very close, in hard-to-define ways. Despite the fact that Norrell’s hermit crab shell is even thicker than Childermass’, their spikes have always fit together quite well. 

On the other hand, he’s falling in love with John Segundus. He knows it in his bones. What he feels for the pale man in the wire spectacles is far greater than the flare of passion or spark of interest he’s had for anyone for a long time. More than he’s felt for the string of casual partners dotting the landscape of his last decade of dating history. Segundus is waking him up in ways he’d thought were long stunted by pain and cynicism. Bringing back the old romantic fool inside him he thought he’d effectively stabbed to death after Hannah fell out of love with him. 

He has no choice but to follow his heart. And so when Segundus asks him, boldly to do something after work, he readily agrees, feels his heart jump in response to this long awaited yet not expected request. He’d honestly not figured Segundus for the type to make the first move. He’s so cautious, so slight. Though, Childermass realizes after some thought, Segundus has far more strength and fire than he’d originally assumed. He’s stood up to Childermass twice now, stared the man down and rejected his offers of cash. He’s proven himself to be clever, intelligent, fascinating. Childermass can’t get the man’s face out of his mind, and his nights have filled themselves up with fantasies that would have made the Childermass of a decade ago want to smack himself. Thoughts of kissing Segundus, soft and slow. Thoughts of wrapping the man up in his arms, burying his nose in that silky hair. 

Yes, there are sexual fantasies as well. Of course. He imagines kissing every inch of Segundus’ pale, soft skin. Of discovering the taste of his neck, his chest, his belly. Of sinking his mouth down on the man’s cock. He’s pictured making love to Segundus in every way possible. But that’s not what has him so off balance. It’s the other fantasies that are knocking him out of his usual orbit. Making him fear for the safety of his heart. The thoughts of long embraces, of shared trips to the market, thoughts of spooning. Fucking _spooning_. He’s a mess. An absolute mess. 

So of course he agrees to meet Segundus after work. And of course his concentration is shot for the rest of the day. Emma is kind and doesn’t mock him too severely. Despite making a few jokes about whether or not they’ll hyphenate their names when they get married or should she just call both men “Mr. John Segundus” from now on. 

Childermass ignores her, and spills coffee on himself and trips over the uneven tile in the back store room more than once, and generally makes a fool out of himself, because he can’t keep his mind off Segundus for five minutes stitched together.

Six o’clock rolls around eventually, feeling like it’s been dancing further and further away on the clock’s dial just to frustrate him. He hears the jingle of the bells on the door chiming out as Segundus returns. His new jacket is so sexy. His haircut’s sexy too. There’s just a lot of sexy going on with him today and Childermass hopes he can keep it together long enough to enjoy his evening. 

Segundus loiters shyly by the side of the register. Out of the way of the last of the customers who are settling up their bills in order to leave. Childermass rings them up, wishes them a nice evening and turns his attention to his date. John Segundus is his _date_. He smiles. 

“Hello again Mr. Segundus.” 

“Mr. Childermass.” 

Childermass loves that they’ve fallen into this little formal personal joke thing. Like proper gentleman from two hundred years ago. It’s fun, and also…. Sexy. He must stop thinking of everything as sexy tonight, or he’ll end up with an embarrassing situation. “So… did you have anything in mind? Because I know this great little dumpling place,” he says as he dons his jacket and bends to grab his motorcycle helmet from the shelf below the counter.

“Oh sure. Sure, dumplings sound great,” Segundus enthuses, his face practically glowing.

“Brilliant. I think you’ll like it. And dinner’s on me,” He wants to be clear that Segundus is not to even think about reaching for his wallet. 

“Now Mr. Childermass,” Segundus sounds sly, a little edge of suspicion to his voice as they leave the shop and head out to the street. “I can’t let you keep making bids for those books. I can pay for dinner.”

Childermass turns to him, makes his face serious. “This has nothing to do with your family’s books.” He says it softly but firmly, and he means it. He wants to be absolutely clear that he’s not messing about. “This is just me, wanting to buy us dinner. And besides, I have two jobs, while you only have one. That’s twice as many jobs,” he grins to let Segundus know he’s playing with him, and it works. Segundus grins back, looking like a _goddamn angel._

Now they’re standing on the pavement in front of Childermass’ motorbike. “Hop on,” he says. “I can bring you back after dinner and drop you off here.”

“No!” Segundus is shaking his head and backing up as if Childermass has just suggested that he plunge his hands into an active beehive. “No thank you! I’ll drive us. Or… or we can meet there.” The man is flustered, clearly unhappy with the concept.

“Oh… ok.” Childermass is a bit unprepared for John’s vehement refusal. He supposes though that he shouldn't be surprised that his cautious, soft spoken dinner companion is hesitant to leap onto the back of a motorbike. “Are you OK with driving?”

“Of course! Yes. I’m sorry to be so adamant, but I’m just not comfortable riding on motorbikes. It’s nothing personal.”

“No problem,” Childermass says, and he’s telling the truth. He really couldn’t care less if Segundus doesn’t like his motorbike. He’s not a “motorbike guy,” and he just finds them a convenient, low maintenance vehicle. And while his partners _are_ usually turned on by the bike, as long as he can be reasonably assured that Segundus is turned on by _him_ , then sod the bike. “This will be the perfect opportunity for me to judge your driving,” he says with a wink, hoping a joke will reassure the other man, but Segundus doesn’t laugh. Childermass feels a stab of apprehension. Something is suddenly not right. 

“Hey,” he says, stepping closer, voice gentling. “I’m just taking the piss, you know that right?”

“Oh yes. I know. I’m sorry. Must just be a little distracted this evening,” Segundus offers him a conciliatory smile and Childermass relaxes a bit.

They walk over to Segundus’ little car and get inside, do up their safety belts and Segundus starts up the engine. 

“Do you have a satnav? I can give you directions.” It isn’t until Segndus doesn’t respond for a few seconds too long that Childermass glances over and sees that something’s the matter. Segundus is staring at the steering wheel and his face has gone ghostly pale. His breath is coming faster, and when he turns to look at Childermass, his eyes have gone hollow and haunted. He’s panting a little from a mouth that’s slightly parted, like a terrified animal.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Childermass has his belt off in a second and is turned in his seat to face Segundus. Segundus who looks as if he’s absolutely having a panic attack.

“I...I...don’t know. I think it’s..being in the car with you. I.. just need a minute.” 

“Shall I get out of the car? Should we walk? Tell me what you need,” Childermass makes his voice soft and careful. He has no clue what’s happening, but there’s a look of absolute terror threading its way across Segundus’ face, and he has to do something to stop that.

“No, I can’t run away from it,” Segundus says, breathless. “I have to sit it out.” He’s shaking a little, his fingers on the steering wheel tremble.

“Can I touch you?” Childermass asks because he feels he _has_ to touch Segundus, to soothe him, to warm him, but he also feels like he shouldn’t without asking first. 

“Yes.” The response is swift and sure, and so he reaches out and takes Segundus’ pale, cold, lovely hands into his own and squeezes them. The effect is immediate, and apparently Segundus needs touch, because the man’s shaking eases and he seems to calm down significantly. “That’s… good. That’s... very nice,” he says, and his voice has calmed from the high, strained sound of a man on the edge of a cliff, to a warmer register. 

Childermass cannot help himself and he raises Segundus’ fingers to his mouth and kisses them gently. “Is this OK? He murmurs against the other man’s skin, should have asked before doing it, but he’s a driven man. He’s lost his head a little with how much he needs to try and take Segundus’ pain away. 

“Oh, yes, that’s… that’s lovely actually.” 

Childermass delivers a few more soft kisses to Segundus’ knuckles then fixes him with a steady look. “What’s wrong?” he asks. Follows it up quickly with, “And you don’t have to tell me. It’s alright not to tell me, if you don’t feel safe.” Safety seems important in this situation. Segundus’, and in some ways, his own. The other man being upset and overwhelmed has woken up a lion’s roar of protectiveness inside Childermass. He wants to wrap Segundus in his arms and swipe at anything that tries to threaten him. Even if that thing is a panic attack outside a coffee shop. 

“I’m feeling better,” Segundus says, and his voice is indeed calmer. He’s not panting any longer. His eyes are still haunted, but Childermass is patient. He wonders if he should still be clasping Segundus’ hands in his own, but the man hasn’t pulled away. If anything, he’s squeezing back, so he just leaves his hands as they are for the moment. “I suppose I need to tell you some things,” Segundus says.

“Whatever you like,” replies Childermass, not wanting to push him.

Segundus swallows audibly and then turns away to sit looking forward out of the front window again. As he does so, he gently pulls one hand free of Childermass’ grip, but leaves the left one, the one closest to Childermass where it is. Childermass laces their fingers together and rests their hands on his knee. This for some reason seems to ramp Segundus’ anxiety back up again, makes him take a shuddering breath and pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as he squeezes his eyes shut. But he’s handling it now. He’s on top of it, and Childermass can see the change in his demeanor. He’s riding the wave now, not being swept under. It’s an important difference. 

“I um… I lost a partner to a car accident two years ago,” Segundus says, and Childermass can suddenly see it all very clearly. Those eleven words fill in the gaps of months of questions he’s had about Segundus’ behavior. “We were together for five years. And uh...we were driving home from his parent’s house on the night it happened. He was driving, I was in the passenger seat...holding his hand.” He looks down at he and Childermass’ entwined fingers and the tears that had been held in his eyes by gravity are spilled out and tumble down his cheeks.

“Is it alright that I’m holding your hand now?” Childermass is suddenly very aware of the significance of this simple act. If it’s not going to help Segundus, or worse, if it will harm him, he doesn’t want to be a part of that.

“Yes, yes, it’s good. It’s helping,” Segundus replies, giving Childermass’ hand a gentle squeeze, and Childermass huffs out a soft sigh of relief. “I’m mostly OK with it, with the accident. With his death,” he continues. “I’m in therapy. I’m working a steady job. I’m absolutely healing. I know I am because it’s not a struggle be...to be without him like it used to be.”

“What’s his name?” Childermass asks. He very carefully does not say _was_. 

“Stephen,” Segundus’ voice catches just a little bit on those two syllables, and he’s crying in earnest now, but silently. Just leaking tears from his eyes. Childermass aches to hold him, but he stays still and waits to see what Segundus will say next. Gives him space to work through it on his own.

“Being in the car with you… I… well… I’ve never had a passenger in the car with me. Not since the accident. And everything just came rushing back. I mean, I don’t remember what happened. Not really. It’s all a bit of a blur, but it was just… just…”

He seems to be struggling a little so Childermass cuts in. “It’s OK. I understand completely,” he says, and is glad to see Segundus nod acknowledgment and pull in a deep, shaky breath. “Take all the time you need,” Childermass adds. “We can sit here as long as you like. Or, I could head home. We don’t have to-"

“No! No, I want you to stay. That is, if that’s alright with you.” Segundus chuckles wetly, his spectacles flash briefly in the light of the street lamp as he turns his head toward Childermass. “If I haven’t completely scared you off by going mental on you, that is.”

“You haven’t scared me off at all,” Childermass says, because what he _wants_ to say is that he’s been drawn even closer. The intimacy, the trust Segundus has shared with him is making his heart glow like a supernova inside his chest. He wants to say that he’s already a complete fool for Segundus, and that short of telling Childermass that he actually _is_ a serial killer, he is signed on for whatever Segundus wants from him. 

“Oh good,” there’s an equally wet smile to go with the chuckle, and Childermass thinks distractedly that Segundus is a very pretty cryer. It makes him look like a tragic prince in some sad fairytale. He just wishes he didn’t have any reason to do it. Ever again. “I really am doing much better. About Stephen’s death that is. I...I...miss him, of course I do, but I’m getting used to his… being gone. You know what they say about grief. It comes and goes. It doesn’t happen in a straight line from point A to point B.”

“You can grieve as long as you need to,” Childermass says, because he feels he has to. Because it’s the truth, and maybe Segundus needs to hear it. 

“Thank you for saying so. That’s what my therapist says too. Though sometimes, I feel like I need to hurry up and get it over with, or like I _should_ be over it.” Segundus gives Childermass’ hand another squeeze. This time when he turns to look at Childermass, his eyes are soft and a little sad, but they don’t look haunted any longer. Childermass feels his shoulder muscles unclench in response. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to ride to the restaurant on your motorbike,” Segundus says.

Childermass is so surprised that he lets out a little bark of a laugh. “Really?” he asks. “I’d have thought you’d prefer walking.”

“I can’t live in the shadows of my fears all the time, And what’s more, I’ve grown quite hungry. Panic attacks apparently burn a lot of calories.” Segundus sniffles, and it’s adorable. 

Childermass remembers that he has a small stack of napkins from the shop in his jacket and pulls them out, hands them to Segundus who gratefully accepts and uses them to wipe at his tears. “I assume you’re a safe and competent motorbike driver?” he asks, before blowing his nose in a delicate fashion. The formality of his question only adds to the fondness that’s pooling thickly around Childermass’ heart. 

“Yes. I’m a very safe and competent motorbike driver.” He responds. “You’ll have to wear my helmet, as I don’t have a spare, and it’s probably too big for you, but it’s a three minute drive, so you should be fine.”

They get on the motorbike, and Segundus puts on the very big helmet, wraps his arms around Childermass’ waist from behind and snuggles close and Childermass idly contemplates going for a five hour, cross country trip, just so he can keep feeling that embrace. 

And though there are times when Segundus’ grip around his waist turns to iron, and he can veritably feel the fear coming off the man behind him, Segundus is very brave and doesn’t make a noise. At least not one Childermass can hear over the modest rush of wind in his face. 

They pull up to the restaurant and are swiftly seated. Childermass orders piles of food and plans on pawning off the leftovers on Segundus. The man is far too thin. The sort of thin you know isn’t quite natural, and is probably the result of stress and grief. It makes Childermass want to hand feed him dumplings dipped in soy sauce and mu shu pork until he fills out a bit. 

Not that he minds Segundus’ thinness. It’s his body after all, and it’s probably breathtaking under those new clothes, but Childermass is feeling very strong urges to protect and feed and nurture his date. He tries to squash them down with limited success while watching Segundus put forkfuls of lo mein into his mouth and chew happily.

They talk about everything while they eat. About Segundus’ sunshiny sister with the loud, happy family. About his slightly posh, just-a-bit snooty, but unfailingly supportive parents. He tells Childermass about how he used to paint and draw, and how he makes 19th century portraits of friends and family. How he gave the art up after Stephen’s passing. Childermass says he’d love to see them, and Segundus blushes. 

Segundus talks about Stephen too, and Childermass is surprised to not feel an iota of jealousy. Yes, Stephen is dead and Childermass is sitting across the table from Segundus, watching his changing expressions and wanting to kiss him. But Segundus’ eyes light up with deep love when he mentions Stephen’s name, talks of the holidays they took to the shore. About the art he’s made of Stephen, about Christmases with the man’s lovely parents. 

Through it all though, Childermass feels nothing but deep fondness. And not just for Segundus. For Stephen as well. He wishes he could have met the man. He honestly sounds like a stellar bloke. 

Childermass talks about his long history with Norrell. He keeps it positive, plays up how in sync they’ve become. How well Norrell knows him and vice versa. He doesn’t want to bad mouth the man. He wants to allow Norrell to keep something of a positive opinion in Segundus’ eyes. If the two ever do meet, Segundus will have plenty of time to see Norrell’s less than noble qualities for himself. And so he talks about the good conversations they have, how supportive Norrell’s always been. He doesn’t bring up past relationships, or any of the dark things from his old life. Doesn’t want to scare Segundus off too quickly. 

Childermass tells him of his time as a deckhand, his time as an assembly line worker, of all the random jobs he’s had, and makes Segundus laugh with a few choice anecdotes of his past foibles.

When the check comes, Segundus dutifully doesn’t touch it, instead he lowers his eyes until his dark lashes brush his pale cheeks and murmurs “Thank you Mr. Childermass.” And it’s so shy and so sweet that Childermass almost kisses him right there at the table. The urge is not helped when Segundus raises his eyes to Childermass’ face, and Childermass can see a clear invitation in the other man’s dark gaze. There’s a pulse of heat there, and Childermass feels it, like a palpable thing. 

After dinner, they ride back to Segundus’ car, the bag of leftovers nestled between them, and Segundus’ grip on him eases a little. He’s already more comfortable on the bike. Once they’re back at The Bean, Segundus asks shyly if Childermass would like to come to his place for some tea.

“Only if you’re feeling up for it,” Childermass says. And when he says ‘up for it,’ he knows he’s not talking about tea, and neither is Segundus. Not two hours ago, the man had had a meltdown about his dead lover, and Childermass doesn’t want to push him. But that look he gave Childermass in the restaurant, well, it left very little to the imagination. 

“I’ll be fine,” Segundus says. “Truly I will. I’ve had some food in me, and it’s out of my system. It was just the car… us sitting together in the car. I’ll work on that in my own time.” 

It’s a measured, calm response and Childermass wants to believe him. He lets the eager gleam in Segundus’ eyes convince him that the man is telling the truth and hopes he’s not stepping over a boundary. “I’ll follow you over,” he says, feeling a spark of excitement flair up inside him as he contemplates what will surely happen next.

When they arrive and Segundus lets them in, he walks to the kitchen and begins to fill up the kettle for tea. Childermass can’t stand the charade a minute longer, the thin veil of make-believe where he pretends not to want Segundus so badly he can taste it. So he steps up close behind Segundus, while he’s at the sink. He doesn’t act, just stands close enough so that Segundus can feel his warmth, can feel the heat of his breath against the back of his pale neck. 

Segundus turns off the water and lets the tea kettle rest in the sink with a metallic thunk. He’s breathing hard and he leans back against Childermass, rests his head back against Childermass’ shoulder, exposing his neck. Childermass puts his hands on Segundus’ hips and gently pulls him in closer and Segundus moans, soft and low in his throat at the contact of his arse against Childermass’ crotch. Childermass kisses the side of Segundus’ neck, gently, placing little presses of his lips against that achingly soft skin, while his heart is busy pounding away in his chest. He doesn’t want to rush, but he’s beyond aroused by the softness of Segundus’ body pressed against him. 

“Oh… _fuck_ ,” Segundus says it in a whisper, and then Childermass has to spin him around and crush their mouths together. He presses Segundus against the edge of the sink in the process and they both let out moans at the increased friction. He tries not to be too rough, but Segundus opens his mouth immediately, matches him for every slip of tongue, every sweep of lips, hungry, insistent. He’s making desperate little noises that are quickly driving Childermass out of his mind. He grasps Segundus’ face in his hands to help him devour the man’s mouth with his own. Segundus pauses, pulls back briefly. Childermass is afraid he’s come on too strong, but it’s only to remove Segundus’ glasses and place them on the counter behind him, and then they’re right back at it. 

It’s Childermass who pulls back next. He has a sudden thought, and he wants to do this the right way, all the way through, as much as he can. “I’ve, I’ve been tested,” he gasps out, knowing it will throw a minor roadblock in the path of their swiftly mounting desire, but needing to express it nonetheless. “I’m negative. Full spectrum of STI tests, probably six months ago. Been single ever since.”

Segundus nods enthusiastically. “Me as well,” he replies. “Me and Stephen both got tested years ago. We were monogamous our entire relationship. There’s been no one since.” 

Childermass grins wolfishly at him and lunges for his lips, but Segundus pulls back gently, holding him up for just a second longer. “Thank you for bringing that up,” he says, eyes shining and fond. “That means a lot.”

Childermass’ grin deepens. “Bedroom?” he asks, and Segundus smiles back with bruised lips and leads him out of the kitchen and down the hall. 

Segundus flicks a switch, and soft lamplight floods the room, for which Childermass is eternally grateful. He’ll make love to Segundus in the dark if he has to, but he’d much rather get a good look at the body he’s fantasized so relentlessly about.

They kiss madly for a few moments before Segundus pulls them both awkwardly down onto the bed. Childermass ends up on top of Segundus, a thigh wedged between his legs. The man’s body feels unbelievably good beneath him. The softness of him. The way Segundus writhes to press himself up into Childrmass hands and lips. If there was even the slightest shadow of a doubt that Segundus wants him, it’s swiftly burned away by the enthusiastic responses of the other man’s body to every move Childermass makes. It’s like he’s playing a finely tuned instrument. His hand gripping Segundus’ hip is met with a gasp against Childermass’ lips. A gentle thrust with Childermass’ pelvis results in a quiet sob. 

It’s such a nice sound that he presses, thrusts again and is similarly rewarded. He sets up a slow rhythm of thrusts, and Segundus’ sobs turn to full on moans. Childermass is so distracted by all the lovely noises and the intense snogging, that he at first doesn’t know what’s happening when Segundus stammers out his name in broken pieces and stiffens beneath him. He realizes that Segundus is coming a bit too late to fully enjoy it, and pulls back to look at the man’s face in the immediate aftermath. 

Segundus is a thing of beauty. His cheeks are flushed pink and his eyes are large and blown extra dark and he’s staring up at Childermass with a stunned look on his face. His lips are parted and he’s panting from his recent climax, and Childermass has to fight very hard not to tell the man he’s fallen hopelessly in love with him. 

“I’m...I’m sorry. I must have been..”

“Shhh,” Childermass cuts off Segundus’ attempted apology with a gentle kiss to the lips. “You’re so beautiful. That was so beautiful.” He kisses Segundus on his hot cheek, and then pulls back to look into the man’s dark, lust softened eyes again. “Can I undress you a little?” he asks. “I want to touch your skin.”

Segundus nods eagerly, still looking a bit stunned and so Childermass goes slow as he teases open the buttons of Segundus’ shirt. He places soft kisses on each new inch of pale skin that gets revealed, and is pleased to hear Segundus gasp at each press of his lips. When he reaches for Segundus’ belt buckle, the man stops him with a hand to Childermass’. “I’m a bit of a mess down there,” he warns, his voice growing self conscious and wary. 

“That’s what I was hoping for,” Childermass replies, grinning wickedly. The other man’s face is transformed briefly by a look of surprise. “Can I put my mouth on you?” Childermass asks, wanting specific consent. 

Segundus nods again and lets out a breathless “yes” and so Childermass undoes his trousers, unzips him and tugs them down a little. He scoots down the bed and after a look up at Segundus to make certain this is OK, he begins to clean him up with his tongue. He laps up the thin, sweet puddle of Segundus’ spend that’s been smeared across his lower belly and then licks his cock clean with long, slow lathes of his tongue. He keeps his eyes on Segundus as he does so, and is rewarded by the sight of the man’s head falling back, his mouth falling open. 

Segundus gasps up at the ceiling as Childermass continues his careful cleaning, as he reverently licks Segundus free of semen, and then keeps going. Soon, he has Segundus hard again, stiff as stone. He’d had a feeling this would be possible, easy even, and he’s overjoyed that Segundus never even goes fully soft, just has a dip of less-than-hard between one erection and the next. 

He engulfs Segundus cock in his mouth and gets to the happy task of bringing him off a second time. It takes a lot longer this time around, and that’s precisely what Childermass was hoping for. The chance to feel the other man slide between his lips, to pull those lovely noises from his open mouth. He settles in and really enjoys himself and enjoys Segundus’ reactions. The man is rolling his head back and forth on the pillow, making a continuous stream of soft gasps and low moans. He’s got both hands clenched in Childermass’ hair, and the sharp tingles this sends spilling down Childermass’ spine only ratchets everything up a notch. 

Childermass is so aroused by the feel of Segundus in his mouth, that he’s thrusting against the man’s lower legs as he works him, groaning against the hot, slickness of him. When he can feel Segundus tensing up and getting close, he undoes his own trousers, hurriedly, one handed, and strokes himself along with the strokes of his lips and tongue. 

“Oh, _Childermass_ ...oh _fuck_ ,” Segundus arches his back and lets out a reedy series of gasps as he climaxes a second time, and those sounds, and the taste of him spilling over Childermass’ tongue, push Childermass to the brink. They come almost at the same time, Childermass following in a rush of sharp pleasure seconds behind Segundus, and it’s glorious. It’s _perfect_. 

Somehow, after they’ve regained their breath and enough sense to move, Segundus totters to the loo. Childermass grabs a fistful of tissues from the box on the bedside table and cleans himself up as best he can. Segundus returns, pulls the soiled coverlet from the bed, sloughs off his ruined clothing, and helps Childermass out of his as well. They settle back in bed, flushed and naked, and grinning like fools. 

Childermass spends some blissful moments kissing Segundus’ mouth, soft and slow and stroking a hand up and down his nude body in long sweeps. He wants to memorize the topography of Segundus’ sharp hip and flat belly, the small corner of his shoulder that fits so nicely in the palm of Childermass’ hand. The other man melts against him and kisses him back with the same, slow, honeyed sweetness. 

It feels far more tender, more profound than your average first time shag. At least far more than the ones Childermass usually experiences. He’s used to his partners lighting up a smoke, or making cynical comments after sex. One of them trying to beat the other at the game of proving just how casual this is. It’s a stupid game, this striving to keep things light and unaffected. 

Childermass isn’t feeling casual at all. Segundus, warm and loose from his recent orgasms, ( _plural,_ Childermass is rather proud of himself for that), is lying close and kissing him so gently, stroking his face and neck with those lovely fingers… It feels like the opposite of casual. He finds himself struggling again not to confess his feelings. As if Segundus' lips are pulling it out of him. 

He can’t say it though. It’s too new. It’s far too early to trust that this isn’t just some sort of dopamine fueled infatuation. He keeps the words locked inside his mouth and tries to express how he feels with the slow, languid movements of his lips against Segundus’ mouth, his hand sliding down the length of Segundus’ long, slender thigh. 

They fall asleep eventually, curled around each other, Childermass’ nose buried in Segundus’ neck and Segundus’ arms wrapped around his shoulders. 


	8. Chapter 8

John wakes a few hours later. It’s not morning yet. Or rather, it  _ is _ morning, but dawn hasn’t broken, it’s still dark. He’s deliciously warm and the first thing he feels upon waking is Childermass’ hot, slightly damp breath against his neck. He smiles into the darkness, remembering the truly astounding sex they’d had. The sex that had essentially knocked him unconscious.

He turns his head and kisses Childermass’ hair, noses his way beneath it and kisses the man’s forehead as well. Childermass smells delightful. Like cinnamon and vanilla and just a hint of petrol. He also smells faintly of semen. He’s incredibly warm, and wrapped around Segundus under the covers.

He can’t help but kiss Childermass on the forehead one more time, and this apparently pulls the man up from sleep a little, for he moans softly and snuggles just a bit closer. That small noise and that subtle movement alone and Segundus is suddenly riding a knife’s edge of arousal. His cock, already erect simply because it’s morning, is now throbbing, and his skin tingles as nerve endings perk up and take notice. He’s panting with lust within seconds, and he can’t ever remember having this sort of hair trigger before. 

He rolls in Childermass’ arms from his back onto his side, so they’re facing each other. His movements wake Childermass up even more and he murmurs a half-word “ _ gundus _ ,” and sighs, his arms tightening around John, pulling him close. He must feel John’s almost painfully stiff erection press against his belly, for he wakes up even further and kisses John, long and slow and soft on the mouth. 

“Good morning,” he says, in a voice all gruff and warm with sleep. “What have we here?” His hand makes a languid stroke down to settle in the dip of John’s low back. His touch is making fireworks burst underneath John’s skin and a dull throb of pleasure pulse from deep inside his low belly. 

“I want to suck you,” John says against Childermass’ lips and receives a gasp and a moan in response.

“Oh Jesus, yes please.” Childermass kisses him again, rougher this time, using plenty of sliding tongue and sucking of lips to further illustrate his approval of John’s plan, and John whimpers from the resulting surge of lust. 

He breaks the kiss and pushes Childermass onto his back and clambers quickly down. Segundus pushes covers aside as he goes, to settle propped on one elbow on his side between Childermass’ spread legs. His own feet and shins dangle off the edge of the bed as he settles in, with his face directly above Childermass’ crotch. “I’ve waited a long time to get you into my mouth,” he says and though he can’t quite see Childermass in the predawn darkness, he can hear an answering moan, and a quiet “fuck, yes,” from above him. 

He begins by kissing everything  _ but  _ Childermass’ cock. He places soft kisses and gentle sucks to the insides of the other man’s thighs, to the sensitive skin immediately adjacent to his hip bones, to the soft patch of hair below his belly button and immediately above the head of his already straining prick. Childermass is gasping and making tight sounding cries. “Oh fuck, John, John,” he’s resorted to John’s first name, and this is new. It was “Mr. Segundus” for the past several days and now, now it’s ‘oh fuck, John.’ Segundus smiles against Childermass’ skin as he keeps up the torture, soft and slow. 

He ducks his head and starts placing tender kisses against the warm, furred sack of Childermass’ balls and the man yelps and cants his hips up and lets out a stream of rough expletives, mixed liberally with the word “ _ please. _ ” 

John takes pity on him and tenderly starts kissing Childermass’ cockhead, then placing a trail of feather light kisses all down the shaft. He hears a whole new category of moans and a sharp intake of breath. “Bloody tease” gets pushed through gritted teeth, and then one long, low moan as John takes Childermass into his mouth and sinks down on him to the halfway point. 

The feel of him is incredible. His heat and thickness and the throb of his heartbeat against John’s tongue. John sets up a slow, inexorable rhythm and begins stroking himself in tandem. He has to go slow on his own cock, or he’ll come too soon. He always comes so much faster with a hot prick in his mouth, and Childermass’ prick in particular is a dream sliding past his lips. 

Childermass reaches down and winds his hands in John’s hair and John moans and nods just a little to show his approval. Childermass gets the hint and tightens his grip into fists and John moans more loudly.  _ God  _ he loves having his hair pulled. He loves having his face fucked. He loves everything about this. He loves… 

Childermass is apparently quite chatty when he’s aroused. “Oh Jesus God... oh  _ fuck _ ... John, your mouth, your fucking  _ mouth _ . I can’t... I…. It’s so good. So hot. Fuck,  _ fuck _ .” 

John  _ loves _ the cursing and the praise and the general descriptive nature of Childermass’ dirty talk. He could listen to it all day, and the rough, low, bloody gorgeous sound of the man’s voice is winding him up really quickly. So is the tight double grip of Childermass’ hands close to his scalp and the feel of Childermass’ thick cock jutting against the back of his throat. He goes somewhere else for a few moments, lulled by the feelings, the sounds, the lovely scent of Childermass’ skin.. He wants to make John Childermass explode in his mouth. He wants the man to come so fucking hard. He…wants...oh he wants.. Oh God. Oh, oh  _ God _ . 

And just like that John is coming. He hadn’t meant to, but he’d gotten so turned on by Childermass’ words, had lost track of the speed and pressure of his own hand on his prick, and now his orgasm is a cresting, surging wave inside him. He lets loose a series of keening moans against Childermass cock as the wave peaks. Childermass can clearly tell John has fallen over the edge because he curses, says “ _ yes _ ” weakly and follows him. He gasps John’s first name again and thrusts up with his hips, and John swallows down the sweet hotness of him through the slowly fading aftershocks of his own climax. 

Afterwards, John rests his forehead against Childermass’ hip and gasps for breath, and he can hear Childermass panting along with him in the darkness. 

John feels his heart’s confession battling to get past his lips. He keeps the words inside though, presses down on them with all his might. He’s truly terrified to feel this much this soon. He can’t trust it. He can’t even really trust Childermass. A man he knows comparatively little about. 

He knows that he hungers for Childermass with an intensity that surprises him. He knows that he can’t stop thinking about him, that Childermass makes him feel like he’s been blown apart and then put back together again in the best way. He knows that Childermass desires him at least as much, and that when John had broken down in the car, Childermass had sat through it with him, held his hands and kissed them. That part keeps sticking with John. The tenderness and care Childermass had shown him when he’d gone off the deep end. And he hadn’t given even the smallest indication of being uncomfortable with all John’s Stephen talk. In fact, he’d seemed to find joy in those stories. This was a thing John hadn’t known was possible.

So yes, Childermass does things John thought were impossible. Like making John want to be in the world again. Like helping him find the solid ground beneath his dangling, drifting feet. Bringing him back down to the earth. 

John knows he needs to keep working his way back on his own. He can’t rely on a new relationship to do that. But this doesn’t feel like that sort of thing. It feels like he and Childermass are each their own person. They have their own goals. Childermass doesn’t seem easily nailed down. He’s a scruffy alleycat. The sort who comes and goes as he pleases. And that’s fine with John. He wants Childermass to have total freedom. He himself wants that freedom, too. 

Rather than overthink things too much, John delivers a kiss to his lover’s thigh, and then hauls himself out of bed to go fetch a towel to put down on top of the mess he’s made. He then crawls back up onto the bed and lets himself be enveloped in Childermass’ warm embrace, pulling the blankets back over them in the process. He lets Childermass tuck his head under his chin and hold him tight and luxuriates in the warmth and in the other man’s smell of spiciness and clean sweat. 

“My God,” Childermass breathes out, his voice slightly slurred with the first vestiges of post coital drowsiness. “That was bloody fantastic.” 

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” John smiles against Childermass collar bone. “You have a lovely cock,” he adds. “It’s so thick and so fun to suck on.”

“If you keep saying things like that, you’ll make me want to go again. I’m an old man. You should be careful you don’t wear me out.”

John chuckles. “If you’re an old man then so am I. How old  _ are _ you anyway?” he asks.

“You really know how to keep the pillow talk flattering,” Childermass grumbles, but John can hear the smile in his voice. “Forty four,” he says. “You?”

“Twenty nine.” John says, and gets tickled for his impertinence. Once he's yelped and squirmed and settled back into Childermass’ arms with a massive grin on his face, he admits the truth. “Forty three.” 

“Ah. I’ve taken a younger man to bed. I’m such a letch.” 

“And I’m robbing the grave. It’s an acquired taste. Shagging the elderly. But I think I could grow to like it.” 

Childermass laughs out loud at this, rich and deep and John feels his heart swell in response

“I like you Mr. Segundus. I like you a lot.” Childermass says. His voice is oh so fond, and his hand comes up to stroke idly through John’s hair, the resulting tingles making John want to purr with pleasure. 

“I like you a lot too, Mr. Childermass,” he responds, cuddling in closer and sighing. That’s it. What an elegant loophole. He can just tell Childermass he likes him a lot. And it’s true. It’s the only thing he can be 100% sure of. Liking Childermass. It’s a good resting point between a new friendship and being actual, committed partners. This deep sort of liking. 

They fall asleep again eventually and the next time they wake it’s dawn. Thin slices of pale morning light are coming in through John’s bedroom blinds, transforming Childermass’ arm and shoulder into black and white tiger stripes. They rise and dress, looking awkwardly and goofily at each other every two minutes, pausing now and then for kisses. 

John offers Childermass breakfast and Childermass kindly declines, saying he has no stomach for food in the morning and he’ll get something at Norrell’s. They exchange mobile numbers, a thing they surprisingly hadn’t done yet, and Childermass shrugs on his jacket and grabs his helmet from the kitchen table. 

John walks him to the door and is enfolded and kissed quite soundly, to the point that he very much wants to pull Childermass back to bed. But the man has work today and so does John. They can’t spend the entire day making love, even though John very much wants to. He delivers a few more soft pecks to Childermass’ lips and receives a very fond look before Childermass leaves. This time, the gunshot rattle of the motorbike outside makes John smile. 

He spends the rest of the morning in a fuzzy dream state. The fuzziness and dreaminess aren't helped at all by text messages from Childermass, that start coming in an hour later.

**_Hello. Not sure if you remember me. I make your coffees._ **

_ Hmmm. I’m trying to recall… Are you a rough looking bloke? Incredibly sexy? What was your name again? _

**_John_ **

_ Can’t be. That’s my name. _

**It’s mine as well!**

_ Doesn’t sound likely _

A pause of several minutes, then:

**Thinking about your mouth on my cock**

John’s face flushes with heat, and so do parts of him further south, and then wouldn’t you know it, he’s thinking about that very thing as well. Oh the power of suggestion...

_ You are?  _ He texts back with suddenly clumsy fingers

**Absolutely. That’ll be wank fodder for the next six months...**

_ You’re not such a bad cock sucker yourself, Mr. Childermass. _ John can flirt too, when he puts his mind to it.

**Thank you, Mr. Segundus. I do my best.**

_ I like your best. Your best is quite good actually. _

They banter back and forth for a while. John loves it. He’s always been fond of words. Adores praise and compliments and loves to heap them onto a partner. The fact that Childermass is an avid and flirtatious texter makes him happy in a way that’s deeply satisfying. 

_ Did you manage to get some breakfast, Mr. Childermass? _

**I did, Mr. Segundus. I have replaced all the nutrients and electrolytes you stole from me**

_ Good. I like thinking about you keeping your strength up. How’s your day going? _

**Dull. Boring. No kisses**

John beams at the little string of words in the text box on his mobile. This is full on, soft-as-clouds, new relationship fluff. This feels very much as if they’re dating. Are they dating now? John takes in a deep breath, tamps down the massive smile on his face and makes another phone call for his job. He can’t let his questions and worries get the better of him this early on.

“Yes ma’am. We will absolutely refund your money if the product did not work to specifications. What exactly was wrong with it? Oh, … I see… no ma’am, it’s actually supposed to do that. That’s what an inflatable mattress topper does. It inflates.”

He hangs up and texts Childermass back. _ Well, if kisses would make your day brighter, perhaps I can help... _

**When can I see you again?**

John’s heart begins to race as the latest text comes in. He doesn’t want to seem too eager. Considers playing it cool, then immediately abandons the idea. He’s too old to play those games any longer. Was never much good at them anyway. 

_ When are you free?  _ he texts back. 

**Tomorrow night**

John smiles _. Perfect _

They text details back and forth for a little while, deciding to meet at John’s place so John can make Childermass dinner. He insists on paying Childermass back for the scads of Chinese leftovers that he’ll be eating all day today. Childermass readily agrees. 

John returns to focusing on his work, making calls, taking calls, placating, soothing. People are generally nice when you kill them with kindness. And he does this. Apologizing, explaining. He’s good at his job and rarely gets that horrid customer who yells and makes a scene. He thinks about Childermass’ job for Norrell, tracking down books, making sales, handling so much of the other man’s affairs. 

A tendril of doubt curls its way into his mind as he thinks again that Childermass might be seducing him to get Norrell closer to purchasing Segundus’  books . It’s a silly thought, but he can’t help but entertain it, even for a brief moment. Because he has issues with self esteem in the wake of Stephen’s death. Because who would want to be with a thin, unimpressive, anxious man like John Segundus? 

And then he remembers the way Childermass touched him, as if he was made out of porcelain, as if he was breakable and precious. He remembers the warmth of Childermass’ embrace, and how he gently carded his fingers through John’s hair. This leads immediately to memories of explosive orgasms and his name gusting breathlessly past Childermass’ beautiful lips, and suddenly he’s quite warm, and all thoughts of his uncle’s book have gone out of his head. 

He’s so lost in thoughts of Childermass that he almost doesn’t hear the slot in the door squeak open and the slide of paper on paper as his mail is delivered. He shakes himself out of his lustful fantasies and goes to collect his usual small pile of bills and adverts. 

He’s surprised to see a personally addressed letter on the top of the pile, and shocked to read the name of ‘Gilbert Norrell’ on the front, and now his breath is coming short with nameless apprehension. What could that man possibly say to him? And why wouldn’t Childermass warn him that a communication was coming from his employer?

He dumps the other mail on his dining room table, and rips open Norrell’s letter, unfolding it, and reading swiftly. It’s short and to the point, and as his eyes play over the spidery script that crawls across the single page, Segundus feels dread unfolding inside him, followed by anguish and then a sort of white hot rage he hasn’t felt since he was a scrawny, bullied little boy in school. Gilbert Norrell is a horrible bully. He’s no better than the rough boys who slammed him into the wall and stole his books. 

And Childermass. The letter is clear about Childermass’ role in this. 

_ If my offer is amenable to you, I’ll send my assistant, John Childermass by to collect payment and go over the details. He can answer any questions you may have about our agreement. _

John feels a flower of spiking anxiety bloom inside his chest, like a slow firecracker of icy shadows. He feels a sickening lump form inside his throat and his eyes go blurry with sudden tears. How could Childermass be a part of this? This horrible, terrible opportunistic thing? How could he hear this news from  _ Gilbert Norrell _ , of all people? He feels guilt and shame roiling at his insides as he goes to his workstation and picks up his mobile phone. He must talk to his parents. He must talk to Stephen’s parents. He must find out what’s really truly going on. Mustn’t jump to conclusions. 

He can’t stop thinking about Childermass’ soft eyes and his loving touches. All lies. All lies and manipulations. He thinks he might be sick, wants to gag this feeling out of him, rip it out with his bare hands. He calls his parents first. Can’t stand the thought of talking to Stephen’s parents when he’s in this sort of state. 

He’ll get to the bottom of this. He’ll make things right somehow. 


	9. Chapter 9

Childermass finishes up the chores he knows he needs to do first thing. Goes over the grocery list with Norrell’s cook, talks to the cleaning service about careful instructions for cleaning the library (the last company was sacked for attempting to polish things). He fetches the mail, goes through Norrell’s bills and looks for correspondence the man will need to see first, puts everything in order of what will be the least likely to make Norrell clenched and grumpy. 

While he works, he stops often to text with Segundus. They have a delightful exchange and set up another date, and Childermass has to strive hard to focus on his work, to not let thoughts of Segundus’ black and silver hair and large dark eyes and incredibly responsive body make him drift off into fantasies. 

He checks in with Norrell after he’s grabbed a bite to eat and some coffee and is prepared for the next list of things his employer may have thought up for him to do. Norrell is in his usual place, bent over a book at his desk. He looks up when Childermass knocks and enters. He has a very pleased smile on his face, and this makes Childermass unusually apprehensive. 

“What’s got you so giddy?” he asks, trying to hide his apprehension behind a playful jab.

“Oh Childermass! I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but since you said your Segundus fellow wouldn’t sell for any amount of money, I went ahead and handled the situation through other channels.”

Childermass feels ice flood his veins. “What do you mean you handled it? What  _ other channels _ ?” He asks, his voice going very soft and careful. 

Norrell is oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature. “I did some digging of my own and found a compelling weak spot. Now he’s sure to sell. He’ll almost certainly have no choice.”

“Mr. Norrell, tell me what you’ve done.” Childermass steps closer to Norrell’s desk and the look in his eyes must have finally broken through Norrell’s self indulgent glee, because he looks quizzically up at Childermass with a small frown. 

“If you must know, I found out that he had a lover who died, in a car crash. So I went on Facebook, thank you by the way for setting up that profile for me. It’s been very helpful. Anyway, there’s lots of pictures of this Segundus character and the other bloke from a few years ago, so I looked around for information.”

Childermass knows he has to keep listening to Norrell’s tale if he has any chance of helping Segundus, of stopping whatever horrible thing Norrell has set into motion, but he feels a swell of nausea and resentment as his boss continues speaking. He knows in his bones that whatever Norrell says next will sever their connection for good. He’s quit the position before the words have finished leaving Norrell’s mouth.

“I found a relative, a sister of the deceased apparently. Looked around on her profile. Turns out her mother, the dead bloke’s mother, has cancer. A rare form. The best treatments are new and largely untested, but they’ve had a lot of success in trials. They’re on offer for whoever has the money to purchase them. Not covered by NHS apparently.”

“Please, Mr. Norrell,” Childermass feels like he might be sick. “Please don’t tell me you brought this up to Mr. Segundus. Please don’t tell me you…used this... as  _ leverage _ .”

“And why shouldn’t I? God’s sake Childermass, this journal  is a crown jewel. Have you any idea what I can get for selling the rights to it to that American film company? I’d increase my income by several hundred thousand pounds! And it looks as if the published letters are widely respected in the literary world as well. I can’t simply let  them slip through my fingers because some dull wanker won’t sell it to me.”

“I need you to tell me what you said to him Mr. Norrell. Did you call him? Send a letter? An email? When did this happen?”

Norrell knows something isn’t right. He must surely see the rage dancing in Childermass’ eyes. He can’t not notice how Childermass has turned to a statue made of ice. But his momentum and his pride in his own cleverness carries him through just enough to provide Childermass with the information he needs, and this is good. Childermass needs that information, the how and the when, to help him help Segundus.

“I sent him a letter yesterday. It should have been delivered in this morning’s post,” he says. “I told him about the cancer, the treatment. I offered him precisely the amount of the treatment for the sale of the book. It’s a hefty sum. Thirty thousand. Not many people have that sort of cash just lying around. I told him you’d be by to talk details. You’re always so good at twisting the knife as it were. I’m certain he’ll sell- I say! Where are you going?”

Childermass ignores him as he spins on his heel and marches out of the library. He hears his boss call his name, the realization that something is very wrong between them finally soaking through his selfishness and self satisfaction. Childermass makes his way to the drive and is on his motorbike and headed for Segundus’ flat in two minutes time. He has one goal. Get to Segundus before that letter does. And failing that, do his best at damage control. 

He must make Segundus know that he has nothing to do with this. That it wasn’t his idea. That their burgeoning romance is not in any way connected to this horrific act of Norrell’s. 

He might have broken a few minor traffic laws, but he arrives at Segundus’ place in record time. He cuts off the motorbike’s engine, rips off his helmet and runs to the door. Knocks, loud and frantic. Waits a few tense moments. Knocks again.

“John!” he yells. “John, open up! It’s me! It’s Childermass!” he knocks a third time, and finally hears the muted footfalls of Segundus coming toward the door. 

The door is pulled open and the sight of Segundus tells Childermass all he needs to know. His face is a mask of grief and anger. He has the letter clutched in his hand, and Childermass feels the sight of him like a punch to the gut. He even lets out a grunt of air as if a fist has actually made contact with his flesh. “John,” he says the name like a plea. 

“I can’t believe I actually thought you liked me,” Segundus’ lovely mouth curls into a sneer of anger and distaste. “You...you  _ used _ me. You f-fucked me just so I’d be more amenable to your boss’ sick, twisted offer.” 

“I didn’t! You have to believe me! I had no idea he’d stoop this low!”

“It’s all here in black and white Childermass.” Segundus holds up the letter and waves it at him. “ _ I’ll send my assistant, John Childermass by to collect payment and go over the details. He can answer any questions you may have about our offer _ .” His voice seethes with hurt as he quotes Norrell’s words back to Childermass. “ _ Our _ offer,” he repeats, like he has something bitter stuck to his tongue. He runs his fingers through his hair and glares at Childermass’ chest, unable apparently to meet his eyes.

Childermass flinches as Norrell’s unfeeling, presumptuous words are flung into his face. “I swear John, I had no idea. I learned about it just now and came right over.”

“What’s next Childermass? Are you going to console me with another blow job and then tell me it’s probably best to sell. Remind me how much I stand to lose if I don’t? Seal the deal with a kiss?”

“You’ve got this all wrong,” Childermass feels as if he’s in a waking nightmare, it’s become hard to breath, even more difficult to speak past the swiftly forming lump of dread in his throat. “I’d never do such a thing. By know you must know-”

“I don’t know you at all!” Segundus yells. His face is flushed and his eyes are flinty. “Didn’t you tell me just last night, over dinner, how you and Norrell are so very close. How you work like a ‘well oiled machine’ together? You’re his right hand man. You make the deals right? How am I supposed to believe you had nothing to do with this?” Segundus is crying now, angrily. Tears making wet tracks down his red cheeks, and Childermass feels his heart threatening to break inside his chest. “I was a fool to think you could truly feel something for me. You with your fucking swagger and your fucking motorbike. Why would you ever want a pale little nothing like me? Fuck you!” and with that, he slams the door in Childermass’ face. 

Childermass stands there like a fool for a moment or too. Stunned and in pain. He wants to knock again. To insist that Segundus believe him, but he knows it’s all too much for the other man to handle. He’s just been blackmailed by a loved one’s illness. He’s just been betrayed (he thinks anyway) by a man he thought he could trust. He knows pushing things won’t help right now. But he feels as if he’s breaking into pieces. Grief and anger cracking through him like fault lines. 

He takes a few moments to calm himself, paces back and forth on Segundus’ garden path, feeling like an idiot. He fights back tears, tries to swallow down the anguish that’s doing its best to claw its way out of his throat, before he gets back on the bike. He can’t possibly drive in this state.

Once he’s taken a series of deep breaths and calmed his scattered, frantic mind and he’s fairly certain he won’t run the bike into a tree, he sets off back for Norrell’s. When he gets there, he goes straightway to the library. Norrell is right where he left him, half an hour ago. Childermass marches up to his desk, takes his keys, the ones to Norrell’s house and garage and safe off of his key ring and tosses them down on the desk. “I quit,” he says. He catches a flash of complete surprise on Norrell’s face before he turns to leave.

“What...what are you talking about?! What do you mean you  _ quit _ ? Don’t mess about Childermass. I’m not in any mood for nonsense today.”

“I don’t care what you’re in the mood for Gilbert.” Childermass never uses Norrell’s first name, and this grabs the man’s attention. Childermass turns back to face him, chest heaving with rage, glaring daggers at Norrell. “I quit. I’m not working for you any longer. What you’ve done to Jo- to Mr. Segundus isn’t right. It’s deplorable. I can’t even stand to look at you, I’m done!”

He’s jabs his finger at Norrell as he speaks, glaring at him, daring him to respond. He expects Norrell to snap back at him, but instead the shorter man’s eyes shift into a knowing sort of gleam that Childermass immediately finds unsettling.

“Don’t tell me you’ve slept with him,” he says, and Childermass can’t help but flick his gaze away from Norrell’s face. “Jesus, John,” Norrells says. “Can’t you keep it in your pants? He’s a bloody  _ client _ .” He knows about Childermass’ bisexuality, his longish string of casual affairs. He’s never complained before. Lets Childermass’ business stay Childermass’. 

“He’s also a human being Gilbert,” Childermass bites back. “A real person with a heart, that you’ve just broken in two for the sake of your own bloody stupid greed!”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Norrell responds, voice sliding into a sullen sort of resentment. “You’re emotionally compromised. You’re thinking with your prick. Just cool down and get yourself sorted.”

“I’m not thinking with my prick Gilbert. I’m thinking with my fucking heart. You’d understand if you had one.” And with that, Childermass spins again and leaves the library. He’s not at all surprised when Norrell doesn’t come after him. He’s a stubborn old goat and he doesn’t apparently have any true spark of human feeling inside him. 

Childermass goes straight to his room and begins packing. He throws fistfuls of clothing into a large duffle bag, a handful or two of books he can’t live without, his laptop, his mobile phone charger. That’s all he really needs. The rest can go into the trash bin, or be collected later if Norrell’s amenable. He slings the bag over his shoulder and marches down the stairs and out of the house. He’ll stay in a hostel or crash on Emma’s couch until he can find a place to rent. He’s done with Norrell. Even if Segundus never forgives him, he’d rather sleep on the streets than spend another minute under Norrell’s roof. 

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the air outside starts to cool the wet tracks of his tears on his cheeks. He’s not surprised, being that he’s grieving the loss of  _ two _ relationships within the span of a single hour. How had everything been so fantastic this morning, only to fall apart like so much wet paper before the afternoon was even half over? 

He hops on his bike and heads for the coffee shop. He knows Emma is there for her shift, and he’s praying that she’ll let him stay at her place for the night. He can afford a hotel, but they’re expensive and hostels can get a bit dodgy. 

She takes one look at his face when he walks in and closes up the register, leads him into the back room. “What on earth has happened?” she asks him, once they’re safely in the storage room with the door shut. “You look like you’ve just come from a funeral.”

“I have, in a way,” Childermass replies. He wants to tell Emma about what’s happened, but he’s still reeling a bit from the trauma. He sits down on a pile of boxes of coffee beans and puts his head in his hands.

“Give me a minute,” Emma says. He hears her rummaging around further back in the shelves of the storage room, and she returns after a moment or two with a silver flask. “I’m not an alcoholic, I swear, but some days, you just need a stiff drink.” 

Childermass looks up at her, takes the flask, unscrews it, and after a sniff to ascertain that it’s whiskey, knocks some back. It helps. The burning fire of the alcohol coursing down his throat and warming his chest. He takes one more sip before handing it back to her. Any more and he’ll get maudlin. 

He tells Emma about Segundus and himself. How they spent the night together. How it was astoundingly good. He tells her about Stephen, and how Norrell did some digging and used Stephen’s mother’s illness as leverage to try and buy Segundus’  books. He told her how he’d rushed over to Segundus’ only to have his heart broken while having a front row seat to Segundus’ breaking as well.

“Norrell! That fucking bastard!” Emma is fuming by the end of it. “Who the fuck does he think he is? Playing with people’s lives like that? I’ll fucking kill him!” She looks like she could too. Childermass is secretly satisfied by the homicidal rage in her eyes. He shakes his head though. 

“It’s OK Emma. I quit. I’m never seeing that arsehole again. I knew he was a bit off. Of course I did. I’ve worked with him for two decades now, but I didn’t know quite how low he’d stoop. I suppose the promise of Segundus’  journal was the final straw that made his horrible side come out.”

“I want to shoot him in the face,” Emma’s words are violent, but her voice has grown resigned and sullen. She’s just blowing off steam and Childermass knows this. She’s….fiery when she’s angry. 

“Would I be able to crash on your couch for a few days until I find a place to stay?” he asks, suddenly afraid she’ll say no. Maybe she has a girlfriend staying over and wants privacy. And he honestly doesn’t think he could handle hearing sex noises through the walls right now.

“Of course,” she says it immediately. “I’m on my own lately, after Ruby took off with that fucking bitch from the pub. We can commiserate together.”

Childermass smiles at her grimly. “Thanks,” he says. “It means a lot to me. I’ll help out with the cost of food. Clean the loo. I’ll pull my weight.”

She smiles back, pats him on the shoulder. “I’ll get a second set of keys made. Stay as long as you like.”

“Thanks Emma.” He says it again, because he’s full of gratitude and the shine of the whiskey is making him extra sentimental. “You’re the best.”

“Don’t I know it.” She winks and goes off to stash her flask again before walking back up to re open the register. 

Childermass sits there for a while. He’s not on shift today, but he’ll pitch in and work until Emma gets off at six. It will help keep his mind off the wounded look in Segundus’ dark eyes. 


	10. Chapter 10

John allows himself a good long, messy cry after Childermass leaves. He deserves to sob into his pillow for a while. Needs the release. But he’s also learned enough about grief, has had enough of it in the past two years to be sick of it. It’s bloody exhausting, the wracking sobs, the tears making his face all puffy and chapped. It takes a lot out of him, and frankly, he’s fed up with it. 

He knows he’ll cry more later. He knows Childermass meant a lot to him, and this betrayal will haunt him for a while, but he’s also so bloody tired of feeling grief. It’s this gray, twisting pall that’s hung over him for far too long. He needs to crawl out from under its heavy influence on his life and move on. 

So after he’s had his cry, he gets himself up, washes his face and finishes packing to go see his parents. They’d had a good talk after he received the letter, and they’re eager to see him and talk next steps. He won’t call Roger or Ceilia Black yet. He wants a solid plan of action before reaching out to them. He feels the knowledge of Ceilia’s cancer chewing away at his insides, and that’s a whole other layer of grief, just waiting to step in and wrap its cold arms around him. He can’t stop and dwell too long on the cancer. On the fact that a woman he’d started to see as a surrogate mother might be dying. 

His parents live on the outskirts of St. Albans, a mere three hours and change south, and so he packs some snacks, some bottles of water and enough clothes to spend a couple of nights. They were lovely when he’d called. Full of understanding and warmth. They’d immediately invited him to stay and talk over what to do next, and that in and of itself, his parents' unfailing support had been a great balm after the trauma of Norrell’s letter. 

He tries and fails to distract himself with a podcast on the drive down and arrives in the early evening. He’s immediately pulled into a warm hug by first his father then his mother. “It’s oh so good to see you, pumpkin!” his mother coos. His father claps him on the back and can’t wipe the smile off his face. John’s been distant over the last two years and he’s forgotten how much he misses them. 

“You’ve gotten so thin!” his mother exclaims as she heaps potatoes and another slice of roast chicken onto his plate that night at dinner.

He grins at her as she adds a pile of carrots on as well. His mother has always used food to express affection. It’s a wonder he’s not rather more pudgy than he is. 

“Well, what can I say? I’ve missed your cooking.” This earns him a beaming smile. His parents can be a bit reserved at times, they’re artistic types with a passion for the classics, but also, they can be quite warm when they put their minds to it. It feels good to be back in their house, with its watercolor landscapes on the wall, African tribal masks and silk Japanese tapestries. The shelves and shelves of old books, the piles of crossword puzzles his father is addicted to. The familiar surroundings help him relax and let go of some of his anxiety. It’s been too long. 

He slowly tells them everything. About Childermass, the fact that he works for Norrell, and that he’d begun seeing Childermass romantically, only to receive this horrible letter. 

“What if your new friend is telling the truth?” his father is cautiously optimistic. 

“And how likely is that Da?” Segundus can’t help but be a bit snappish. His parents see him in the most flattering light possible, as handsome and talented and accomplished, and it’s hard for John when their image of him conflicts with his own.

“I’d say very likely. You should give him another chance,” his father replies, frowning down at his plate. 

“I agree, pumpkin. He must love you. You’re so wonderful.” His mother reaches over and squeezes him on the forearm.

“You’re my mother. You’re supposed to say that,” Segundus replies, but he feels the compliment anyway. Lets it pink his cheeks a little. Along with the possibility that Childermass could be telling the truth. But if he is, then why hasn’t he texted? Called? Banged on the door and demanded to be let in?

Instead, Childermass had left. Just gotten on his motorbike and driven off. He remembers the harsh words he’d flung at Childermass immediately prior, how he’d slammed the door in the man’s face and felt his cheeks pink further, this time with shame. 

After dinner, they retire to the sitting room with glasses of wine to discuss next steps. 

“We talked it over while you were on your way down,” his father says, “and we think we’ve hit upon a solution that will work well for everyone.”

“Oh?” John can’t imagine what will work, but he’s open to listening. He’s desperate at this point. 

“We sell the journal to the film company an ourselves and keep the money,” his mother says. 

Segundus is honestly shocked. “But… I thought you both hated the idea of Strange’s journal or Arabella’s letters being made into a film!” he stares back and forth at his parents. They smile back at him.

“Who cares about the bloody film. This is Ceilia’s life we’re talking about. Stephen’s parents can’t possibly have enough money for that treatment can they?” he asks, and John shakes his head. They’re retired teachers. They live comfortably, but they don’t have 30 thousand pounds to spare. 

“Well then, it’s settled.” his father nods before taking a sip of his wine. “We’ll contact the film company and offer to sell the film rights. This Mr. Norrell can fuck right off.”

John feels tears come to his eyes at his parent’s generosity. He’s fed up with crying, but maybe one last time…. He embraces them both, and his mother cries too. Suddenly, the world seems brighter, tinged with the amber tones of pure relief. 

“I’ll dig up that New Line fellow’s contact information from back in 87,” Frederick Segundus says. “I’m certain he’s long been replaced or worked his way up the ladder, but I’m sure I can use it to track down someone to give the offer to.”

“Do you think they’ll accept the help from us?” his mother, always a clever one for important details, speaks up from her seat in the armchair by the fireplace. 

“I’m not sure,” And John isn’t. They’re proud people. Kind and sweet like Stephen, but also very self reliant. “What if we don’t tell them. Make an anonymous donation?”

His mother’s mouth falls open in surprise. “That’s a wonderful idea! It takes away the pressure for them to be grateful, to feel awkward around us.” It’s then that John learns that his mother has been emailing back and forth with Celia Black for the past two years. What had started as an email of condolence and a large bouquet of flowers sent to the Black’s house, had bloomed into something of a pen pal friendship. Ceilia hadn’t told John’s mother about the cancer. She was the sort not to want to worry other people. And John’s parents abhor social media, so they’d been shocked to discover the woman’s illness.

Now that they have a plan in place, everyone’s mood improves. They get a little tipsy and spend the rest of the evening watching Fawlty Towers and laughing until their sides hurt. Segundus wedges himself into his mother’s armchair and rests his head on her shoulder, just like he used to do, back when he was a bullied gay teenager in a rough situation at school. 

He falls asleep that night quickly and easily, knowing that there’s a solution on the horizon. A way to help possibly save Ceilia’s life, and a way to keep the journal out of Norrell’s grubby hands. He can’t think about Childermass. Actively pushes his anguished pining out of the way so he can have this moment of peace and quiet. Says a solemn ‘fuck you’ to grief for the evening. 

He dreams of Ceilia Black’s face. Her thick crown of intricate braids and her soft brown eyes, her plump cheeks and that smile that looks so very much like Stephen’s. It’s a soft, sweet dream. Just a touch sad. When John wakes, he feels hope tickling at the edges of his heart. It’s a welcome feeling. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To any of my discord friends who read this chapter, here is where I introduce City!Enzo (without the cocaine)
> 
> Also, I got a bit turned around the other night and posted chapters out of order, left chapters out. Don't post when sleepy folks! Everthing's been sorted out now though...

Childermass wakes on the sofa at Emma’s to fifteen missed calls. All from Norrell. There’s also seven text messages, also all from Norrell. He deletes the voicemails without listening, and reads the texts, because he can’t delete them without opening them.

**You’re being ridiculous**

**Come back this instant!**

**I’m not sure what you’re trying to prove, running off like this. Throwing a strop. It’s not as if I did anything illegal.**

**Childermass**

**Childermass! Call me back!**

**Look, you can have a raise. Ten percent increase in your salary. I was going to give it to you anyway come Christmas.**

**Childermass, it’s been twenty years together. Don’t go.**

The last one tugs at Childermass’ heartstrings just a bit, but he clamps down on that small spark of sympathy he feels for his ex-employer, grinds it into the dirt with the heel of his resentment. 

There’s no texts from Segundus, no calls either. This adds a layer of bitter disappointment on top of his anger at Norrell’s demanding he return. He doesn’t reply to any of Norrell’s texts. Let the man stew in his juices. He’ll ask about collecting his things when his anger has cooled and he can stand to look at Norrell again. And who knows how long that will take. 

He wants to text Segundus, to ask to see him again, to suggest that they talk, but he’s rubbish at reaching out when his heart is invested. When he’s wounded and sad. His parents had let him walk away, so had his lovers. He’s realizing just how isolated he’s made himself since he last fell head over heels and had his heart broken. And now, it’s happened again, and all he can see is Hannah’s stern face, Henry’s cold eyes. 

He picks up his mobile and writes out several long texts, then deletes them, only to start all over again. He does this for a few days, until he runs out of words to use. Segundus hasn’t made contact, and he must assume that the man hates him. And that thought feels like an icicle has dripped its way down into his heart.

He gets up and goes to work at the coffee shop, hunts for a new flat, hunts for a new job. Soon, he finds a place close to the shop and can quit sleeping on Emma’s sofa. She’s been lovely, supportive and kind. Far kinder than she’s ever been to him previously, which only shows him how very wounded he must be. If Emma’s not snarking at him, not pricking him with her cynical jokes, she must sense how broken he is inside. 

He gets hired as the personal assistant to the CEO and president of a large publishing house. A competitor of Norrells, which pleases him in a way he knows is small minded, yet he can’t be bothered to care. His boss is a shark of a woman. Driven. Dedicated. Definitely a workaholic, but she pays him even better than Norrell, and he’s learning a lot about the company’s computer systems and the fast paced world of publishing that exists above and beyond Norrell’s stone age operations. He sets up meetings, books flights, orders catering to be delivered. He supervises a team of editors and handles some pretty important sales negotiations, and within a month, he’s been given a promotion. He cuts his hair short, buys a bunch of smart suits, shaves regularly. Buys himself a car. Sometimes when he looks in the mirror in the morning, he doesn’t recognize the sharp executive looking back at him. 

He does like his job though. Enjoys the challenge of it. Enjoys being appreciated more than stuffy, emotionally stunted Norell ever could. His new boss is stern, but she’s modern, open minded, relentlessly supportive of the LGBT community and LGBT authors. She heaps praise on him and doesn’t lose her cool and yell like Norrell routinely did. Overall he’s better off. He misses Norrell something fierce. But he can’t ever go back. He’s never even gotten up the nerve to arrange to get his things, and can only assume Norrell has tossed them out.

He longs for Segundus day and night. At first he thinks the longing will kill him, will rip his heart in two, and he’ll wake, bleeding internally and inches from death. But regrettably, he lives. He pushes his grief and regret down and moves on with his life. He never reaches out, and neither does Segundus, and so he assumes the other man is completely done with him. 

He can’t stop thinking of Segundus though. Can’t get the man’s skin and eyes and soft dark hair out of his mind. He never stops loving him, even as the weeks stretch into months. He dreams often of Segundus’ smiling face. Of his features suffused with pain and anger. He dreams of Segundus’ coming undone beneath him, of Segundus slamming the door in his face. He’s a bit of a mess if he’s honest. But he keeps it together and focuses on his job, and eventually, the pain starts to ebb a bit. 

He has no interest in dating. Might stay single for the rest of his life. Ends up eating alone in front of the telly. Emma visits occasionally, and he stops by the coffee shop once a week or so to chat her up while she pours him a coffee. She encourages him to text or call Segundus, but eventually, when Childermass dismisses the idea with a wave of his hand and a shake of his head enough times, she gives up. 

It’s on a day that he drops by on the way home from work, just wanting to pick up some ground coffee and a couple of boxes of tea for his flat that Segundus is there. 

He walks in and starts to head for the counter, but not before he spots Segundus, sitting in his usual spot, laptop open, face schooled in the same sad little frown he’d been wearing the first time he’d laid eyes on the man. Luckily, Segundus doesn’t look up when Childermass enters, so Childermass can walk stiffly (while suffering a major heart attack) over to the counter to hiss at Emma. 

“Bloody Hell??” he whispers. “When did _he_ show up?” 

“A few weeks ago,” Emma whispers back, and has the gall to smile at him. “He started coming back in on Mondays. It is Monday isn’t it?”

 _Shit._ It _is_ Monday. Childermass had forgotten. “Has he..has he asked about me? No, of course he hasn’t. Why didn’t you tell me?” _Emma_ , that _traitor._

“Because you didn’t ask. OK, and maybe I was hoping you’d stop by on a Monday and bump into each other.”

“Emma… you really should have-”

“Oh shut up Chill, you know you’re a fucking mess over him. Just go talk to him.”

“I can’t! Not now. Not after what’s happened!” His frantic whispering is bound to grab Segundus’ attention sooner or later. He sneaks a glance and sees Segundus peering at his laptop screen, obviously very absorbed in his work. _Thank all that’s holy_. He can just sneak out, leave without being noticed. “I’m leaving,” he says. 

“If you do, I’ll go get you and drag you back here. Don’t be a fucking coward Chill. He’s sitting right, over, there. Just go talk to him!”

Childermass lets out a long frustrated sigh. Emma means it. She’ll cause an absolute scene if he tries walking out. He takes a deep breath, shores up his courage and walks over to Segundus’ table.

“Mr. Segundus,” he says, looking down at Segundus, relishing the last precious second of anonymity before the man looks up and sees him. And then yes, Segundus raises his eyes to Childermass’ face and Childermass can see the swift progression of confusion to recognition that flits across the man’s pale features. Childermass doesn’t look like he used to after all. He’s wearing a sharp, slate gray suite and a white button down shirt and his hair is short, he’s clean shaven. He looks like the sort of corporate shill he’s always resented. 

Segndus’ mouth drops open. “Mr. Childermass?” he says, his voice little more than a soft exhalation of air. 

Childermass tries on a small, wan smile. “Hey,” he says, because his heart is slamming itself against his ribcage and he can’t manage more than that one syllable right now. 

“Hello,” Segundus looks as if he’s similarly overwhelmed. His face has gone bloodless, and he’s staring up at Childermass as if he’s seen a ghost. 

“I uh.. It’s good to see you,” Childermass says, because it’s the next Polite Thing that cues itself up to leave his mouth. But also, it’s the God’s honest truth. He’s missed Segundus more than a severed limb. 

“Yes...it’s...it’s good to see you too.” Segundus’ voice is all tremulous and weak with nerves, and this gives Childermass hope. 

“Can we talk?” He decides to be brave. “Not here. Maybe I could come over and we could just talk for a while? Is that OK?”

Segundus nods. “Yes. That would work. Um…”

“I’m off work for the day, so is it OK if I come by now?“ It’s pushy, but it’s what he wants. No point pretending to be patient after all this time.

“I’m off as well,” Segundus replies, still looking a bit stunned. “Now is fine… just give me a minute to pack up and I’ll meet you there?”

“Yeah. Yes. Of course,” Childermass’ heart stops pounding and starts singing. “Now’s brilliant. Just let me buy a few things and I’ll be right over.”

Segundus nods, eyes never leaving Childermass face. Childermass wants to smile and jump for joy, but he keeps it locked down, giving Segundus a curt nod and heading back to the register. “Give me two bags of your breakfast blend, a box of camomile and a box of your basic black tea. To go,” he says to a grinning Emma.

“So?” she asks, leering just a bit. 

“Mind your own business,” he says, favoring her with a small grin. She hurries off to fetch his order and wishes him well. 

“Hey Chill,” she says after he’s paid and has turned to leave. 

“Yeah?” he’s impatient to get to Segundus’ flat, to hash out their issues. 

“You deserve this. You deserved to be happy.” She says it with feeling, and her face reflects a sort of deep fondness he’s not sure he’s ever seen before. 

“Thanks Em, for everything,” he says with a smile. Segundus has already left, and so he heads out to his car, feeling hope flourish inside him in a heady rush. 


	12. Chapter 12

John rushes home. It’s only a ten minute drive from the shop, but damn it if he doesn’t resent every speed limit sign on the way. He parks, runs for the door and heads directly to the bedroom. He’d been too shocked by Childermass appearing at his table, Childermass looking like a cross between Christian Grey and James Bond, to do much of anything but struggle to stay conscious. To struggle not to black out from the pure overdose of anxiety and hope that had come crashing like a wave through his nervous system the moment he’d recognized the man looking down at him. 

Now he has to change into something relaxed yet sexy. Has to slap on some deodorant, wash his face, brush his hair, pick up some embarrassing piles of dirty laundry and stack some dishes in the sink. 

He’s been doing relatively well since their break up. Yes, he wallowed for a good while. Cried more than once over it. He’s still sad about it really. But after a few weeks, he noticed something unusual. He noticed that he’s stronger now, in the wake of the flaming wreck of he and Childermass’ far-too-short affair. That he can actually pick himself up quicker and move on.

Or perhaps ‘move on’ is the wrong term to use. He hasn’t moved on. He’s just accepted that it was never meant to be. He isn’t letting the loss of his beautiful new connection to Childermass be a reason to disappear from life again.

He’s still in therapy with Honeyfoot once a week. He’s started cooking more for himself. Eating more food at more regular times, and has started filling out a little as he puts on some much needed weight. He breaks out his art supplies again and rebuilds his website. Starts taking commissions for extra pay, and decreases his hours spent fielding calls from obnoxious customers for Security Medical. Eventually he quits the job completely and is able to make a living doing his art. He even starts running in the evenings, building his strength and stamina, feeling his way back into his body. 

He still talks to his parents. Moreso now that they’ve connected over the film deal. The deal goes through smoothly and they sell the rights to Strange’s journal to Lion’s Gate so they can make a seven episode series about Strange’s life. They’re advised that television shows will make more in the long run than films and go with the highest bidder. After their donation to Roger and Ceilia Black, they split the remaining money three ways. It’s a nice financial boost. Best of all, the anonymous donation goes through smoothly. John smiles as he sees Stephen’s sister Monique take down her gofundme link and enthuse over this generous stranger on her Facebook wall. 

He can’t know if the treatments will help Ceilia Black recover completely, but it’s a chance, and a chance is worth a lot. A few weeks after the donation, he sends along two dozen pink roses and a card, apologizing for his absence from her and Roger’s lives and telling them he loves them. He’s immediately invited over for dinner, immediately accepts, and has a wonderful time. There’s tears of course, but there’s also piles of  Ceilia ’s famous Shrimp scampi and glasses of white wine and it’s healing to John’s soul on a deep level to reconnect with the couple who he’d fully expected to one day be his in-laws. 

They talk about Stephen a lot, but it’s not in the desperate, wrenching way of right after the accident. John tells them both about his life now, what he’s been up to, but tactfully leaves out talk of Childermass. He gives them both big, warm, lingering hugs, and asks that they keep up via email and phone calls to let him know about Celia’s cancer treatments. He enthuses about the anonymous donor and plays dumb, just to throw them off the scent even further. Celia’s looking thinner and more tired, but she says that the doctors are already seeing improvements. When John walks out to his car after he says his goodbyes, he feels as if his feet have grown a set of wings. Like he could walk home among the clouds that scud across the moon above him.

So yes, he’s doing well. He’s realized that he’s done with letting grief and loss take him down. He has skills and intelligence and a place to live, a reliable vehicle. People who love him, even if one of them isn’t a sexy barista with a one sided smile. He begins to truly see the wealth of his life, the precious things he’s been given, has given to himself. 

He still yearns for Childermass. And that’s OK. He can’t help what his heart wants. When Childermass never reaches out to explain, or to apologize or to fervently refute John’s accusations that he and Norrell were in it together, he just lets it go.

It isn’t until maybe two months later, sitting in Honeyfoot’s office, that he has a breakthrough. One that Honeyfoot is integral in bringing about. 

“What leads you to believe that Childermass was in league with Norrell?” Honeyfoot asks, and for a moment, John splutters a bit. 

“Well, because he...he simply  _ was, _ ” he counters. It’s not a real answer, and Honeyfoot knows this, fixes John with that narrowed-eyed look of his that challenges John to dig deeper. John tries again. “Because of Norrell’s letter. He referred to his horrible proposition as ‘ours’, as he and Childermass’. He said Childermass would be over later to discuss details.”

“And do you think Childermass told Norrell all about your relationship then?” Honeyfoot asks next. 

Segundus blinks. “No...I’m fairly certain he didn’t tell Norrell anything about our connection. Probably would have been a pretty severe conflict of interest. And besides,” he adds. “It was a brand new relationship. We’d only just spent the night together for the first time.”

“Mhm,” Honeyfoot hums his agreement, nods sagely. “Then tell me John, how was it exactly that Mr. Norrell was  _ supposed _ to word that letter? Wouldn’t he assume his assistant, the man who  _ always _ helps him handle these sorts of things, would just handle it this time as well?”

John stares blankly at Honeyfoot. His brain is working, gathering up all the puzzle pieces. 

Thing is, he already had all the pieces. He just didn’t want to fit them together before. Didn’t want to make a pile of sky pieces and water pieces and earth pieces and fit them together into a complete landscape. “I see,” he says, dropping his eyes from Honeyfoot’s face. 

“Yes,” Honeyfoot can tell that John has caught up. “Why is it that you didn’t want to believe he could truly love you John?” He has his therapist voice on. He’s really in his element, nudging John closer to this realization. This thing John should have figured out months ago. He hasn’t pushed or rushed him. Honeyfoot just knew when the right time was to press in just the right spot to help John get there on his own. Clear a path as it were.

“I uh… I didn’t want to lose him.”

“But you had him John. Didn’t you?”

“Yes but.. Not forever. He.. would’ve…,” John pauses, unable to say it.

“He would have what? He’d have died?”

John flinches just a little. “Yes,” he admits with a shaky sigh. “Yes. He’d have died. Or left me. Or disappointed me. Or...or I’d have disappointed him.” He feels a bit like crying, then realizes he’s sick of crying and just...doesn’t.

“People die. We’ll all die someday.”

John looks down at his hands. He knows the truth of what Honeyfoot is saying. Not literally. About everyone dying. Just that he’s afraid that John Childermass  _ in particular _ will be taken away from him. Or, almost worse, choose to leave of his own accord. When faced with the utter magnitude of what Childermass means to him, he can’t stand another loss like Stephen’s. 

But by that point, it’s been two months, and Childermass hasn’t reached out, and neither has he. There’s no point in reaching out now. He tells Honeyfoot as much. 

And that’s when Dr. Jasper Honeyfoot changes the subject. Or appears to. 

“Have you still been getting out of the house once a week to be around people?” he asks.

“No, not really. I’ve let that slip.”

“You should get back to it,” Honeyfoot adds, inspecting his fingernails. “To that coffee shop you liked so much.”

“I can’t go there! That’s where Childermass works.”

“So?” Honeyfoot is smiling just a little bit at this point. “You have every right to still go there if you like. It’s a public place of business.”

John knows what he’s getting at and waves him off with a dismissal, says he’ll think about it, while firmly putting the possibility out of his mind as a no-go. But two weeks later, on Monday, he returns to The Magic Bean. It’s like Honeyfoot planted a seed inside his brain that spread and put down roots and started to flower. He began to miss the hustle and bustle of the coffee shop. To miss the smells of coffee and tea and cinnamon and vanilla. The smooth jazz CDs and Michael Buble that played on the overhead sound system. It really  _ was _ a good work environment. And it  _ is _ a public business, and he has every right to go there if he wishes. 

He finds out from Emma on day one that Childermass left for a new job. He again feels that strange mix of relief and disappointment. But soon, the disappointment fades into a familiar, resigned sort of knowledge that he and Childermass are just not meant for one another, and he settles back into his old routine. Going on Mondays. This time it’s to work on digital art pieces and answer emails about his commissions. To do research on new models and to email with his parents and the Blacks. His 19th century portraits are selling like hotcakes, and he’s doing a mural in a new vegan restaurant two towns over. 

He has a portrait of Childermass that’s been in progress for months. It’s rather larger than his other pieces, and he takes time out to work on it when he can. It’s of Childermass, leaning against a stone wall in a library. His hand is on his hip and he’s looking off camera at someone in that cynical-quizzical fashion he has. His hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and wild, rippling tendrils of it have escaped to cascade around his face. 

Unlike Stephen, who John adored drawing in smart, clean cut waistcoats and jackets with snow white neck cloths, Childermass is wearing the somewhat shabby and handed-down-for-generations clothing of a servant. He has the rough, ragged look of an anti-hero, a dark, Heathcliff sort. John even puts a little dirt under Childermass’ nails for good measure. He imagines a Childermass of two centuries prior. What he would have done to survive in a world ruled by strict class separation and cold, ruthless anti-homosexuality laws. In a world where a fever or a broken limb might end one’s life. How 19th century Childermass would be clever, talented, a little ruthless, but underneath it all, have a good heart. 

It’s through working on the painting that he truly recognizes that he’s still in love with Childermass. That despite the months they’ve been apart (four of them now), he feels the same way he did on the night they first kissed. Nothing has changed.

There’s a knock at the door, and John’s heart jumps in response, jerking him back to the present moment. He feels suddenly a bit sick to his stomach with nerves. What will Childermass think of him now that he’s moved on to some posh office job? Who even is that sharp dressed, clean cut man on the other side of John’s front door?

Despite his nerves he rushes to let Childermass in. He pulls the door open and is struck yet again by the alien appearance of the man standing there. “Come in,” he says, his voice probably two octaves too high. Childermass saunters into his flat. The clothes and hair may be different, but his swagger is still the same. He still walks like some jungle cat, and the sight of it isn’t doing anything to slow John’s rabbit-quick pulse

John cannot help but stare at Childermass. The sight of his face, so clear and clean-shaven, without that sexy hair falling into his eyes, well, it shows him the other man’s features more clearly. He’s far more handsome than John ever gave him credit for when he’d first started shooting glances at him at the shop. And _ dear sweet God in heaven _ , he looks so good in that well fitted suit jacket and snug, button-down shirt. He wonders briefly what Childermass sees when he looks at John. John’s been eating more and running regularly. He’s bulked up a little, has put on a bit of muscle. His hair is still short on the sides, but longer on top, to the point that he’s started pulling it back into what Emma teasingly calls a “man bun.” He’s replaced his wire spectacles with a pair of thick black frames. He supposes he looks more like an artist than he did before. 

“Hey,” Childermass says, his dark eyes trained on John’s face, and John feels himself go hot and start trembling a little.

“Hey,” he replies. “How’s the new job? I almost didn’t recognize you.” He’s desperate to slough off this awkward nervousness of seeing Childermass back in his sitting room. 

“It’s going really well,” Childermass replies. “And yes, there’s something of an unspoken dress code. I took it upon myself to update my look.”

“Yes,” John says. Again at a lack of words as Childermass’ eyes keep holding his own. 

“You look good,” Childermass says, and then his eyes flick down the length of Segundus’ body. Just a quick jaunt down and up, not lingering. Not sexual. At least not overtly so.

“Thanks.. So do you. That new style suits you.”

Childermass favors him with a small smile. A shadow of his usual, one sided grin. The silence stretches out a bit. 

“Would you like some coffee? Some tea?” John immediately remembers what happened the last time he tried making Childermass tea, and his cheeks flame with heat. Too late. He’s said it now. 

Childermass appears not to have noticed. “Sure, but decaf. I’ve got to actually get to sleep tonight.” 

John nods and hurries to the kitchen, grabbing a box of peppermint herbal tea from the cabinet and putting the kettle on. He can’t help but think back to Childermass, standing behind him, pressing him up against the kitchen counter, their desperate, liquid-hot first kiss. He forces himself to focus and gets out a pair of mugs, a spoon. Sugar. “Do you take sugar? I forget,” he asks. 

“No, thank you.” 

The man’s voice is closer than John expects it to be. He turns around and sees Childermass, leaning against the archway that divides the kitchen from the sitting room, hand on jutted hip. Just like in John’s drawing. 

_ Oh shit. The drawing _ . John realizes that the easel with the drawing on it is directly behind Childermass. It’s blessedly pointed away, toward the dining room windows, but it isn’t covered. If Childermass gets curious and wanders over to look, John’s entire heart will be splayed out across the paper, clear as day. He swallows thickly. 

“Ah. of course. Any man who takes his coffee black is unlikely to want sugar in his tea,” he says. At this point, his heart is beating so loud, he thinks perhaps a marching band has somehow made its way into the sitting room. 

Childermass smiles a little more broadly. Nods. “What have you been up to lately?” he asks. 

John figures there’s no need to keep vague. He tells Childermass about his family’s sale of the rights to Strange’s journal to the film company. How a seven part mini series is in the works. How from the money they made off the sale, they could anonymously donate 30 thousand of it to Ceilia Black’s medical treatments. Childermass smiles for real at hearing this. 

“That’s just lovely, John. I’m so glad that all worked out.”

Rather than dwell on that particular subject more than is necessary, John tells him about his rediscovering art, his quitting the medical supply company. Childermass talks about his new job, his driven yet understanding boss. Sometime in the midst of this, the kettle ramps up to a piping scream and John pours them both tea. They sit at the table, across from one another. Just like on the day John first told Childermass about Strange’s journal and Arabella’s letters.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you at the shop,” Childermass says, looking down at the cup between his hands. 

“Honestly, I didn’t know that I’d ever go back there. But Dr. Honeyfoot, my therapist, he pushed for it. Said it was still good for me to get out among people now and then. I’m such a raving introvert.” 

“I picked up on that about you I think,” Childermass remarks. His words, about knowing John, make John’s heart lurch in his chest. Childermass takes a deep breath. “I had no idea Norrell would do what he did,” he said. 

John knew to expect something like this, but he still feels unprepared to respond, feels a lump rise in his throat. “I … well… it took me quite a long time to figure that out. But yes, eventually, I did know that,” he replies. He’s suddenly feeling like something that’s been crumpled and tossed into the trash. Like an empty toothpaste tube, or a styrofoam cup.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Childermass asks, his eyes come up to meet John’s. 

“I don’t know,” John lies. “Why didn’t you?”

“You hated me,” Childermass responds, his voice betraying a glimmer of hurt. 

“I didn’t,” John is quick to refute him. 

“You yelled ‘fuck you’ and slammed the door in my face John,” Childermass says matter-of-factly. 

John swallows, feels terrible some more. “I know. But I never hated you.”

“You just didn’t trust me or like me enough to send a text message?” 

John wants to say so many things.  _ I was afraid of losing you. I was afraid of you one day dying in some horrible motorbike accident. I love you _ .  _ You’re all I think about.  _ But the words stutter and die on his lips. 

Silence descends again, thick and uncomfortable. Childermass’ eyes wander over John’s shoulder and catch on something, and suddenly, John realizes that the man is seated in the chair closer to the stove, facing the easel in the sitting room. 

He watches Childermass’ eyes light up with interest and feels as if he might faint from nerves. “Is that one of your drawings?” Childermass asks, rising, getting up and walking over to it, despite the fact that John is desperately, subvocally telegraphing that he shouldn’t.

He wants to call out and stop Childermass from walking over there, but that will only make him look like an absolute nutter. And Childermass is already half a foot from the easel. The momentum of the moment and the tinyness of John’s flat conspiring to make him reach the drawing in less than five seconds. 

He peers around at the front of the easel, then pauses, and John feels the blood drain from his face. 

Childermass moves to stand between the window and the easel. He’s staring at the drawing, his eyes wide, his mouth falling slightly open. Childermass is silent. It feels as if he’s not even breathing. After a few moments, during which John thinks for sure he’s on his way to a myocardial infarction, Childermass looks up at him. 

“John,” he says. His voice is so soft, that at first John thinks he might have imagined it. 

“Like I said…,” John stands, though he feels as if he might not have the strength to do so for very long. “I don’t hate you.”


	13. Chapter 13

Childermass cannot quite believe his eyes when he sees John Segundus’ drawing. At first, he’s confused. He sees a man who looks familiar. A man in old fashioned clothing, like some period piece BBC regency romance novel. And good. _Really_ good. Rendered with a sort of stark, hyper-realism that makes him wonder briefly if it’s a blown up photograph, rather than a drawing. It’s done in what appear to be coloured pencils, charcoal and chalk? He’s unsure, but it’s stunning.

It takes him a few more seconds to understand that he’s looking at a drawing of himself. He John Childermass, like some 19th century rogue. Like some sexy highwayman. He’s stunned into momentary silence before looking up and finding John’s eyes with his own. The man looks as if he’s on the verge of passing out. His face has gone pale, his eyes are pleading.

“John,” Childermass almost whispers it.

“Like I said,” Segundus replies. “I don’t hate you.”

“John,” Childermass says again, because he’s utterly lost the ability to say anything else. No one has ever seen him this fully before. No one’s ever cared enough about him to take the time and patience to make something so beautiful, and all about him. He’s blown apart by it. He can’t talk or move, only stare at the man in the kitchen.

“As I’m sure I’ve told you, I enjoy drawing friends and family in period piece clothing. It’s a thing I do. And you have...had such a look about you. It’s just perfect for an early 19th century characterization, and well, as you can tell, I got a bit carried away.” Segundus is babbling, but that’s fine, because one of them needs to say something, and Childermass’ words are all gone.

“I hope you’re not angry,” Segundus says, stepping closer. He’s standing probably six feet away now. Too far away for Childermass to touch him, but close enough to where he feels the magnetic pull of his nearness increase exponentially. “I would have asked first, but we weren’t talking and well-”

“How could I ever be angry about this?” Childermass finally finds the strength to speak. “This is… it’s… Jesus John, it’s beautiful.”

Segundus steps closer. His face has thankfully gone from milk-pale to rose pink. “I, well. I’m glad you like it,”

“I love it,” Childermass says it quickly and with fervor. He _loves_ this drawing. And not from any particular sense of vanity. He loves it because it tells him that Segundus cares. That he sees right to the heart of who Childermass is, deep inside. To the dirt-under-his-nails scrappiness of him. The soft parts of him he developed callouses for in order to survive and succeed. It tells him how intently Segundus had paid attention to him, and that Childermass is cared for… loved.

“Oh,” Segundus lets out that soft little word and doesn’t say anything else.

Childermass hasn’t taken his eyes off the man’s face, and now he pulls his gaze away and redirects it back to the drawing. “You’ve captured me perfectly,” he says. “This drawing is more me than the me standing here right now. You nailed it, John.”

“I hope you don’t mind, but I pulled a picture from the coffee shop website to use as a model. It’s the one of you and Emma, leaning on either side of the counter.”

Childermass lets out a chuckle. “Now I know why that pose is so familiar. No, I don’t mind at all.”

They stand there for a moment in silence. Childermass lets his eyes roam slowly over the drawing, taking in detail after detail. The folds of his neck cloth, the light glancing off his messy hair. The high collar of his jacket. His expression is one so aloof, so cynical, built up of years of protective measures and hidden thoughts. He shouldn’t be surprised when his vision blurs and he realizes he’s started crying.

Segundus is at his elbow now, a soft hand has come up to rest on his shoulder. It’s more than Childermass can stand. He pulls Segundus into an embrace, wraps his arms around the smaller man and squeezes him tight. He hears Segundus let out a surprised grunt and then a long sigh, feels the other man’s arms tighten around him in response.

For a long time, they stand there, holding each other. Childermass feels tears leaking out of his eyes, dropping onto Segundus’ shoulder, wetting the fabric of his dark blue t-shirt. He lets himself cry, lets himself sob in Segundus’ arms. He feels Segundus crying too, can feel the little hitches of his chest and belly where their bodies are pressed together.

“God, I’ve missed you,” Childermass whispers into the soft hair at the nape of Segundus’ neck.

“I missed you too. So much,” Segundus replies, a sob in his voice. And then he’s kissing the side of Childermass’ face, pressing tearstained kisses into Childermass jawline, making a trail toward his mouth. Childermass turns his head and catches Segundus’ mouth with his own and then they’re kissing. Childermass’ hands come up to frame Segundus’ face and he loses himself in the salty sweet taste of the other man’s lips. He’s still crying, and so is Segundus, and their kissing is a wet affair.

Childermass hasn’t touched another human being like this in four months. He’s done nothing but stroke himself to thoughts of Segundus, and now, to have the man in his arms at last, so soft and solid and real. Well, the mood changes swiftly to one of heated longing. He feels a sharp surge of lust spark to life where their bodies meet. He feels Segundus’ fingers scrape their way down his back, and moans, hears an answering moan and pulls Segundus in tighter against him.

“I want you so badly,” Segundus whispers, his voice a rough ragged sound.

“Fuck, John, yes. I want you too.”

Segundus pulls back, eyes suddenly tinted with shadows of doubt, he opens his mouth to speak and Childermass spills it out. “I love you,” he says, quickly, before he can decide against saying it. “I love you. I want to be with you. Christ John, I love you so much.”

Segundus smiles through his tears and lets out a happy little chuckle, and it’s like golden sunlight breaking through dark clouds. “I love you too,” he says. “I’ve thought of nothing but you for four months now.”

“Please can we go to bed?”

“Yes, of course,” Segundus takes Childermass by the hand and pulls them down the hall toward his bedroom. He flicks the light on and immediately starts removing his clothes, and so does Childermass. For a brief, very erotic few moments, they undress while watching each other.

When they’ve swiftly divested themselves of their clothing, they stand and let their eyes roam over each other’s nakedness, then they come together in a rush.

They’re kissing again, and it’s so good. The feel of Segundus’ naked body pressed against Childermass is among the best things he’s has ever experienced. Childermass feels the hot throb of Segundus pressed against his thigh, and his own cock, ridiculously hard, pressed against the velvety skin of Segundus’ belly. He can’t get his hands to all the places he wants them, and lets his palms roam in reverent sweeps down Segundus’ back and sides, strokes his hips and waist. Segundus is scraping his nails down Childermass’ back again. It’s a thing he didn’t do on their first night together. It’s wild and visceral and it makes Childermass ache. He pulls back. “Get on the bed,” he growls. Oh he is going to take Segundus apart, bit by bit.

John Segundus grins wickedly and climbs onto the bed, pulling back the covers, welcoming Childermass in beside him. Soon they are wrapped up in each other, kissing madly, thrusting against each other with the clumsy desperation of too many nights spent apart and yearning.

“I have a request… something I’d like to do,” Segundus is gasping, admirably putting full sentences together. All Childermass can do is nod. Segundus pulls Childermass lips from his with hands on his face, looking deep into his eyes. “I want to fuck you,” he says, and Childermass’s brain does a little, jolting side step when he hears those words on Segundus’ lips.

“Oh god yes. Yes. I’d like that.”

“I wanted to make sure… I wasn’t certain you’d be up for it.”

“Believe me luv, I’m up for it,” Childermass wants to be very clear that being fucked by John Segundus is near the top of a long list of things he wants done to him before his life is over.

Segundus smiles. “Good. Because I can’t get that particular thought out of my head.” His smile turns wicked again, and it does things to Childermass’ insides.

Rather than try to speak, Childermass pulls Segundus in for another kiss. This time, their kiss is fueled by the knowledge of what they’re about to do. Segundus fucks into Childermass’ mouth with his soft, questing tongue and Childermass groans in anticipation.

They part, flushed and panting a few moments later and Segundus leans over to his bedside drawer. He returns with a bottle of lube. “Please tell me what you want, what you like. I’ve not done this too too many times before, so I might need some coaching.”

“Oh luv,” Childermass’s eyes roll back a little. "I think I can manage giving you some instruction.” He’s naturally talkative in bed, and telling Segundus exactly how to fuck him silly is making him throb. “Lube up your fingers and take a good long time loosening me up. Is that Ok?” he asks. Segundus nods eagerly, kisses him again, then does as he’s told. After he slicks the two fingers of his dominant hand, he reaches down and begins to gently probe at Childermass’ opening with one fingertip. He keeps his eyes locked on Childermass’ face as he slips his finger tentatively inside to the second joint. Childermass lets out a low moan and thrusts his hips up, knowing what his own face must look like, seeing a feedback loop of lust play across Segundus’ features as he slides his finger in a little deeper.

“Fuck, John. Yes. That’s it. Work it in slow. Fuck me slowly. Oh fuck. Just like that.” He keeps up a soft, running commentary as Segundus fucks Childermass gently with one finger, going a bit deeper with every thrust, until he’s buried up to his knuckle. It’s indescribable and Childermass fights to keep his eyes trained on Segundus, not not let his eyes close, so he can just feel what's being done to him.

“You’re so hot inside,” Segundus says breathless, “so tight. Oh God, Childermass,” and the helpless sound in his voice overcomes Childermass’ strength. He lets his head fall back on the pillow, closes his eyes and moans again as Segundus picks up speed. “Can you take two fingers now, is that alright?”

“Yes, yes. Oh Jesus, yes. Deeper. Make me ready for you,” Childermass can barely keep it together to talk. The feeling of Segundus’ long, slender fingers working him open, fucking him so soft, he could come from this alone. For a while, he simply feels the delicious pleasure as Segundus works him gently, relentlessly with two fingers, softening him, loosening him, making him cant his hips up and gasp at the feel of it. He reaches up and pulls Segundus’ face to his and kisses him, deep and slow, moaning against his lips as the relentless pressure of the man’s fingers inside him goes on and on.

“Childermass?” Segundus’s voice has gone all rough and ragged at the edges. Childermass loves how incredibly aroused his sounds. How on edge. “Can I..can I please...”

“Oh Jesus yes, please,” he’s begging in earnest. Begging for the man’s cock. The bed compresses and releases as Segundus finds his way onto his knees between Childermass’ legs, he pulls his fingers out slowly, and reaches for more lube. Pausing as he slicks his cock, he catches Childermass’ eyes. “I haven’t been with anyone since we broke up,” he says.

“I haven’t either. I couldn’t. I wanted you so badly.”

Segundus smiles, and it’s far too fond and sentimental for what he’s about to do, but Childermass can’t help but smile back. Segundus surges forward and kisses Childermass again, pressing their smiles together, pressing his knees up toward his chest in the process. “I love you,” he whispers before pulling back, resuming his hands’ motion on his cock. He keeps one of Childermass’ legs pressed toward his chest with a firm hand to the inside of Childermass’ knee. Childermass wraps his other leg around Segundus, presses his heel gently against the man’s low back, right above the swell of his arse as Segundus rises up a little to find a comfortable spot on his knees.

“Go slow,” he cautions, though he knows Segundus will anyway. That he’ll take care of him. Segundus finishes slicking his cock, looks down to get his bearings and presses against Childermass’ opening. He slips inside just a little and both men moan and stop.

“Can i...” Segundus looks at Childermass with lust dark eyes.

“Fuck yes, give me more.”

Segundus nods, and he gets this earnest, concentrated look on his face and that might send Childermass over the edge faster than what their bodies are doing. Segundus moves again, sliding in further, stretching Childermass inside with delicious fire, and Childermass groans. Segundus works his way in slowly, inch by aching inch, panting, his eyes locked onto Childermass’ face, until he bottoms out with a whimper.

“God, _Childermass_. God,” he gasps, cheeks flushed. His neck and the top of his chest are pink as well. He’s looking down at Childermass with awe in his face, and Childermass can’t say anything. He’s struck silent by the sight of it.

When he regains the power of speech, he begs softly for more. “Please move. Please. Luv please.” Then he gasps as Segundus complies, pulling out a little and jutting his way back home.

“Childermass, John. I need to fuck you… I.”

“Yes. Yes. Fuck yes,” Childermass grips Segundus by his narrow hips and helps guide his speed and depth and Segundus begins fucking him in earnest. Slowly at first, then a bit faster. He falls forward, propping himself on his arms. Childermass can’t keep his eyes off Segundus’ face as the man works above him, his gaze unfocused, his soft, bruised lips parted. He’s so lost in the pleasure of what he’s doing. Childermass sees the other man’s eyes drift closed and the sight almost ruins him.

He puts his hands on Segundus’ hips and holds him still for a moment. Segundus whimpers again at having to stop, but he does so, stops his thrusts. “Are you alright darling?” He asks, eyes open and trained on Childermass’ face, and _fuck_ , being called ‘darling’ isn’t helping matters.

“I’m fine,” Childermass manages. “Just don’t want to come yet and… looking at you. Feeling you, It’s getting me there.”

Segundus’ eyes take on a mischievous gleam. “I think this means I need to slow down,” he says, before he executes an achingly slow pull out and thrust back in. He presses just a bit at the very end of his inward thrust and Childermass gasps and juts his hips up to meet that aching pressure.

“Oh Jesus John. You’ll be the death of me."

Segundus’ smile deepens when he realizes the power he wields and he does another glacially slow out-and-in thrust. Childermass grips him by the forearms and locks eyes with him and they do this for a while. He lets Segundus torture him with slow thrusts of his hips, slow slides in and out, their eyes on each other, unwavering.

Segundus’ forehead dips to rest against Childermass’, and it's his turn to get talkative. “You feel so good,” he breathes. “So fucking hot and so tight. I can’t stand it.” he pulls out halfway, eases back in. “Oh Jesus God. You’re going to make me come so fucking hard. I love you so much.”

“Please, please,” Childermass can’t do anything but beg now. Hearing Segundus’ wrecked voice, praising him, he can’t last much longer. He slides a hand between them and starts to stroke himself slowly, wanting to make it last, but needing to chase that ache to its peak. “Please luv,” he begs. “Please, I can’t last. Harder. Please.

Segundus curses low and rough and complies, begins fucking Childermass with decisive jabs of his hips. Childermass grits his teeth, strokes himself maybe a half dozen times and yells as his climax surges through him in a flood of pleasure.

Segundus lets out a broken moan and speeds up the intensity of his strokes. His hips stutter, his mouth gapes silently for a moment before he lets out a rough sobbing noise and comes with a series of pulses that Childermass can feel. Childermass, just barely recovering from his own astounding climax, watches Segundus fall to pieces above him with hungry eyes. It’s so beautiful. The man looks like some some naked angel in a rococo painting. Pale and arched and gasping, his lovely eyes closed, his cheeks flared pink.

Once Segundus falls back down to earth, he collapses onto Childermass’ chest, and heedless of the mess between them, Childermass wraps him up in his arms, and kisses his forehead, his hair, his cheek. “You were so good,” he murmurs. “You’re so fucking sexy. So beautiful.”

Segundus makes a happy noise and kisses Childermass, messy and wet on the mouth before turning his attentions to the side of Childermass’ neck, placing a string of kisses there that tingle. He settles in with his face resting against Childermass’ still-pounding heartbeat and sighs. “That was...incredible,” the words leave his lips on a gust of air. Childermass can feel him smiling against his chest.

“Yes, incredible’s a good word,” he replies, feeling a satisfied smile make its way across his own face. Soon they’ll have to get up and sort themselves out. But for right now, he just wants to hold Segundus close, as his heartbeat slows to normal. Segundus seems content with this as well. He’s molded himself against Childermass and keeps placing small kisses to Childermass’ chest, stroking his fingers up and down Childermass’ arm.

“Forgive me for not reaching out,” Segundus says, a hint of regret creeping into the honeyed tones of his post orgasmic languidness.

“Only if you’ll forgive me for the same.”

“I love you,” Segundus says it softly. Now that they’re not shagging, it’s more dangerous to say, and Childermass admires his bravery.

He lifts the other man’s chin gently and looks into his eyes. “I love you,” he says, just as softly. Segundus smiles and kisses him. The kiss starts to turn a bit randy and Childermass pulls away. “Mind if I take a shower?” he asks, and Segundus grins at him.

“Mind some company?” They clammer their way out of bed and into the loo. Segundus gets the water piping hot and they hop under the spray, taking turns soaping each other up, feeling each other up. There’s some slippery friction and some delicious wet kisses and everything smells like Segundus’ green apple body soap. It must be the same one that he was using last time they slept together because the smell makes Childermass feel weak and dizzy with excitement.

They towel off and rush back to bed, where Childermass proceeds to play Segundus’ body like a well tuned harp, using his lips and tongue to bring Segundus to a trembling, gasping climax before they settle back into each other's arms again. Segundus earnestly offers to return the favor, but Childermass is completely satisfied. He feels pleasantly wrung out, doesn’t need anything more, and is honestly not certain his body would comply even if he did.

They drift off in each other’s arms, and it’s perfect. Warm, sheltered. Childermass feels more loved and more deeply known than he ever has before. He drops off quickly, into dreams of he and Segundus dancing together in The Magic Bean. He glances up and Stephen Black is standing behind the counter, He smiles at Childermass, and it's beautiful.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was short and I didn't give my lovely beta reader emilycare a chance to take a look at it and decided to just toss it up on AO3. I'm hoping there's only so much damage I can do to the English language without her around to help me out. 
> 
> Thanks everyone who got this far! This was fun to write!

_My Darling Arabella,_

_The air echoes relentlessly with the booming of cannons. Smoke and dirt and dying are all I see. I keep an image of your sweet face inside my mind whenever I can to shield me from the pure terribleness of it all. I do not mean to be so dark my love, or to worry you. It is only that tonight, you feel so very much farther from me than usual._

_How I long to take your little face in my hands and kiss you. To see that pale nape and your sweet chestnut curls as you bend over your drawings or your needlework. I long for you, my darling. You are everything this horrible bloody war is not. Kind. Intelligent. Beautiful. You make the best sort of sense, when all around me, madness reigns._

_I will have cognac tonight in the officer’s tent. I will laugh and tell bawdy jokes about lusty servant girls and wax poetic about my sweet French wife, when all the while, my heart sings for you, my English rose._

_Soon, my darling Arabella. Soon we shall be reunited, and I may kiss your soft, pale hand, your sweet lips. Soon, I will hear you tutting at me to keep my muddy boots off the carpets. I so miss our spats my dearest. I promise to soundly mock your favorite authors and spill my egg yoke on the new table cloth when I return, just to hear your pretty voice scolding me, to see that little wrinkle between your brows that I do so love to kiss away._

_Your adoring husband, Jonathan Strange_

__________

It’s been a year, and John hardly recognizes his life any longer. He and Childermass had quickly fallen into a frightfully romantic, wildly erotic relationship. And it’s been so easy. Effortless. They fit together far better than their differing outlooks, upbringings and appearances would at first suggest. John soon discovers that Childermass has a very soft side, as Childermass discovers that John Segundus can be a bit of a bastard when he puts his mind to it. 

They move in together a few months after they reunite. Childermass’ flat is a large, two bedroom, the smaller one just perfect for an artist’s studio, and so John moves in with him. He abandons the small, sad, tiny flat he’d called home for almost three years, and settles in comfortably with Childermass. 

They fight. Of course they do. Childermass can be sullen and cynical when he’s hurt. John gets snappish when his anxiety flares up. But they’re both adults. They know how to talk out their problems, and how to kiss away each other’s frowns. 

The sex remains a breathtaking, thrilling thing that leaves John wrung out and full of warmth in the best possible ways. There’s just something so intense about Childermass’ passion for him. The man simply _hungers_ for John. And one look from those searing, dark eyes and John is a puddle of liquid flame. They make love at every possible opportunity. Probably more than they should strictly be capable of at their ages, but John isn’t complaining. 

And there’s much more than sex involved in their union. They talk incessantly too. About every possible topic. History and television shows, and politics, and art. John wends his way deep into Childermass’ childhood stories and does what he can to smooth over that old pain. He lets Childermass see the broken parts of him as well, and Childermass is oh so gentle with them. Like he has been from the beginning. 

Eventually, Childermass is brought home to meet John’s parents and sister’s family, and everyone is quite impressed by the slick executive who acts like a tough, working class bloke and who smiles like a movie star villain. John is certain his mother has developed a crush on Childermass, and his father immediately peppers the man with questions about motorcycle maintenance and old novels. 

That Christmas, Roger and Ceilia Black join them all for Christmas dinner, and Stephen’s parents are delighted to meet John’s new beau, and he them. This is quite reassuring to John, who’d felt awkward about his new relationship being revealed to his dead lover’s parents. He shouldn’t have worried, because Roger and Ceilia knew he was suffering, and are overjoyed that he’s found a new purpose in life, rekindled his art, and has finally met someone to help make him happy again. 

Ceilia has been cancer free for six months at this point, and everyone toasts her with glasses of wine, and most of them shed a few happy tears. It’s a lovely Christmas all around.

Tonight is special, because tonight, he and Childermass will snuggle in together on their sofa and watch the advance DVD copy John’s been sent of _Jonathan Strange In The Peninsula_. He makes tea, and they share a bowl of popcorn and some salty kisses as they watch the first episode. 

It’s quite good actually. Bertie Carvel is cast to play Strange, and he’s just perfect in the role. As is Charlotte Riley as Arabella. The production value is top notch, and the series stays very close to the actual story of the Stranges’ lives. The ending is sad of course, but as John's been informed, the series tactfully does not include any of the somewhat gruesome details of Strange’s capture and execution, and instead, focuses in on the lovely family, the Graysteels, that Arabella moves in with after Strange is apprehended and killed. 

After they turn off the telly, they lie together, wrapped in each other’s arms and talk for a long time afterward. They’re always talking. Bantering. John slips a hand under Childermass’ shirt and strokes it suggestively up the length of his belly to splay his fingers over the other man’s heart. He hears and feels Childermass let out a soft moan and is kissed on his forehead. He knows they’ll make love tonight, simply by how warmly and compellingly their bodies feel fitted together right now, but they have all the time in the world, and John does like to take his time. 

“I rather like it,” he says, meaning _Jonathan Strange In The Peninsula_. He nuzzles his face against Childermass’ shoulder, feels Childermass’ arms tighten around him. 

“I do as well. I’ve always had a bit of a crush on Bertie Carvel if I’m honest.”

“Is that so?” John lets a teasing bit of false jealousy sneak into his voice, and hears Childermass chuckle beneath his cheek. “I can get myself a waistcoat and fashion a neckcloth if you think it will spice things up in the bedroom.” 

“Now there’s an idea,” Childermass’ voice is warm and soft and liquid. John sighs happily and snuggles closer. “Actually,” Childermass continues, “if things get much spicier in there, I’ll self immolate, so maybe we should leave waistcoats out of the equation.”

John nods. “Can’t have you bursting into flames. Bad for the furniture.” 

They rest together for a while longer. John soaks up the warmth of Childermass’ embrace and feels the pleasing firmness of Childermass' body beneath him. He’s perfectly at peace. “My parents would like us over for Easter dinner.” he says after a while.

“I’ll go if your mother makes that ham she made on Christmas,” Childermass says. 

“If you compliment her on her cooking one more time, she will elbow me out of the way and try to run off with you,” John responds, grinning. 

“I do have a way with mothers,” Childermass responds, with a smile in his voice. “You’ve chosen well when you picked me. I’m quite good at impressing the parents. Despite the fact that I have a long history of criminal behavior.”

“I suppose making a comment about how you’ve managed to steal my heart would be frightfully cringey at this moment?” John says, his grin widening. 

“Yes, babe. Yes it would. Please don’t”. 

“You’ve stolen my heart John Childermass.”

“See, now you’ve gone and made yourself adorable, and so I have to kiss you.”

And he does. He lifts John’s chin and kisses him, soft and slow. And then not quite so soft and quite so slow. John feels his body immediately kick into a state of heightened arousal and moans into Childermass’ mouth. It’s always this way. This sharp, intense swell of desire he feels for Childermass. It comes up fast and burns bright, and John can’t help but stoke it and get the flames as high and as hot as possible. 

They break apart breathlessly after a few moments, during which Childermass’ hands have started finding some very interesting locations on John’s body, and John is writhing a bit. “Bedroom?” he asks.

“Yes Mr. Segundus. Bedroom indeed.”

“After you, Mr. Childermass, after you.”


End file.
